


Among the Roots

by ecroeuf



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Finnick Odair Lives, Gardens & Gardening, Magic, Odesta, Sexual Content, The Enchanted Forest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-03-01 19:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13302045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecroeuf/pseuds/ecroeuf
Summary: "When he dies, they dance and sing and cry and mourn as the sun rises, sets, and rises again to watch. And then, when the sun decides to watch from its perch in the blue for the longest that it can, his daughters are born."The Colony has not seen a human man in over a hundred years. Whispers among the nymphs reveal that, not only has a human man stepped foot in the Great Gardens, but that the ritual to rejuvenate their dying home will start immediately. When Anneyce (“Annie”) hears of the news, she’s at first skeptical, and then hopeful. Her job is simple: kick off the ritual with her voice, and share in the gift with the rest of her community. But is the exchange of this human man’s life for her own worth it?And what happens when Finnick and Annie uncover a deep-rooted mystery that's been shrouding the Colony for centuries?FANTASY AU // UPDATES SPORADICALLY





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello, everyone! I'm very, very excited to start publishing this fic. I've been working on it on and off for a few years now, and every time I come back to it I get such a wonderful sense of inspiration. I'm really proud of what it's become, and I hope you enjoy reading it._
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> **As such, a few warnings so you can be prepared on what to expect from this:**  
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> _It is a fantasy odesta fic, so it falls under an AU that has supernatural elements to it. It is a **mature rating** , for sexual themes and undertones. I try to keep the sex respectful, though, and my goal here is to not rely on such themes to drive the plot forward._
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> _Feel free to submit any questions, comments, etc. to my inbox - I love hearing feedback! The first few chapters or so are done, and I have the major outline fleshed out, but updates will come and go based on time._
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> _Happy reading._
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> _-Em_

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

 

 " _It was a little thing, a baby tree, but still it tangled_  
with things around it and required care to move.  
_And when she pulled it out, it's roots still clung to  
Earth from it's old home." _ ** _-Ally Condie, Matched_**

* * *

 

_The mother has never seen a human man before, but stories of his kind have been passed down by mouth from generations before her._

_Her mother and her mother’s mother and her mother’s mother’s mother – on and on in quiet reverie, leaving her with the peace that there will come a day hopefully soon where she too can be a mother to pass down the experience._

_She’s heard tales of her father, and the father before him, and even before him._

_The tales don’t do the form justice._

_They don’t speak of the eyes: dark orbs, capable of enhancing the brooding expression on his face. A gruff set of hair, oddly dispatched on his face, starting from the top of his lip down to the tip of his chin. It’s coarse under her touch; prickles her fingers._

_They don’t speak of the bliss, of the joy, or of the folly. They don’t speak of the highs to match the lows, which come near the end, when they feel the energy pulsing through their veins as it leaks out from the man on their breast. It’s a bittersweet experience, to know the beginning has means to an end._

_When he dies, they dance and sing and cry and mourn as the sun rises, sets, and rises again to watch._

_And then, when the sun decides to watch from its perch in the blue for the longest that it can, his daughters are born._


	2. Chapter 2

Finnick has no more breath to give.

At least, that’s what it feels like. It’s like someone is squeezing his lungs out, stomping on his trachea with fiery shoes. His legs are past any kind of feeling now – more like a constant burn that he knows not even the coolest water will quell. He’s been running for so long that he can’t decide left from right, or even where he’s going. He can feel his vision starting to blur; whether it be from general exhaustion, or the sweat from his face falling into his eyes. All he knows is he just needs to keep going.

They will not take his breath; he has no more left to give.

Flashes of vile statements fill his mind as he runs, each so powerful he can almost taste the acidity of them on his tongue.

 _Payment_ and _loved ones_ and _sex._

 _Quarter Quell_ and _tributes_ and _remaining pool of victors_.

He could hear the screaming and howling ring through the Victor’s Village while he was still trying to piece together what was actually happening. When he did, in fact, realize what was coming for him, he was already out of his door.

_They will not take my breath. They will not take my breath. They will not take my breath._

And now his legs burn and his breath is gone.

But that is okay because that means it was _his_ to waste.

Not theirs.

_Never theirs._

His bare feet crash under the brackish floor. Sharp twigs stab at his ankles, yet he continues. The pounding in his heart rivals the crashing roar of the waves outside his home; but he can’t compare right now because the ocean is what feels like a million miles the other direction and he needs to keep going.

If he stays, they will reap him. That he knows for sure. There is no majority; no probability – the Capitol needs a good story. Who better to reap then the Capitol sweetheart Finnick Odair himself? Who better to remind all of Panem that no one is safe than the very person who resonates having survived and being welcomed with “open arms” to the epitome of power?

If by “open arms” they really meant paid intimacy and disgusting bodies.

_They will not take his breath._

The thick forest morphs from tropical fauna to thick trees as he barrels himself further into the forest. _Away, away, away._

Snow’s slithery snake eyes and his dribbling bloody lips and tenting fingers. The way he looks at him as if he were a piece on his chessboard while simultaneously the piece of meat he feeds to his pet lion.

_They will not take my breath._

Of course, Finnick’s never actually _seen_ the pet lion. It was all just speculation. A secret he traded for his body from a girl with plump, grabby hands, and perfume that smelt like grapefruit. But if there was a pet lion in a cage somewhere deep within the president’s mansion of the Capitol, there’s no doubt in Finnick’s mind that Snow wouldn’t hesitate to feed him Victor meat.

After all, in Snow’s mind, a Victor is either good used as currency, or no good at all.

It’s just Finnick’s own rotten luck that he was more the sooner rather then the latter.

_They will not take my breath._

When the sun falls away behind him and the moon comes out to play is the moment he begins to slow down, as the shadows creep around him like the spindly fingers of the trees around him. In the distance, a creature of size howls and Finnick shivers, his breath tickling in and out in a painful joke of defiance.

They will not take his breath – but that doesn’t mean that his breath won’t try to take him.

Finnick’s not stupid. He’s heard the tales of villagers being taken from their homes in the dead of night by coyotes and mountain lions. The stories enforced by the Peacekeepers and used to scare the people away from the forest prickle in his mind as another set of howls – this time two creatures instead of one – picks up in the distance, closer then before.

In an attempt to get out of the forest floor to survive the night, he surveys the area for a purposeful tree. He’s seen and mentored enough games to know a good method of survival can be found within the trees. Though personally he’s never really ever climbed a tree before, he’s sure from what he’s seen in the games that it can’t be too difficult. Last years Victor, Katniss Everdeen, made it look as easy as walking down the street. How hard can it be for him?

When he finds a low enough branch to start, he jumps to grab hold of it, the bark pinching in the skin of his fingers as he hauls himself up. Thankful for the upper body strength that comes with spearing and swimming, he perches carefully on the branch, his legs dangling over the sides. Considering himself low enough to still get mauled by something big and full of claws roaming the woods, he looks up for more branches to climb. Slowly, he picks his way up, lifting and scrapping the toes of his shoes against the bumpy bark. About ten feet up, he feels nestled high enough to avoid being seen by anything below, and far up enough to avoid confrontation if something actually _were_ to see him.

He perches on the branch, his feet tucked against the tubular trunk of the tree, his arm hugged around its large torso. He looks out to the horizon, hoping to survey the direction in which to continue his journey. He’s gotten this far, but the real challenge is finding out where to go from here.

The whispers in his ear swim back to him. He closes his eyes at the memory. 

_Handfuls of peach colored sheets are cupped in her delicate fingers, which are adorned with rings of various shapes, sizes, and colors. Finnick doesn’t miss the rock-sized number that rests comfortably on her left ring finger, and for a moment he wonders who the giver of that one may be. The ponderings don’t last as he comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t care._

_If she wants to spend energy, money, and probably a stable relationship on a night in his sheets, then it’s none of his business on the Where the Why and the How._

_It’s not like she could take it back anyway. The deed is done. She paid for him; he was hers for the night._

_And that also means it was time for his own personal form of payment._

_She hums slowly, and it morphs into a satisfied giggle as she wrangles herself into his arms, her shock of blue hair frizzing into his mouth. She was a particularly greedy customer tonight – her hands preferring to explore the expanse of the wall behind her head instead of his body in retaliation to him fucking her. Would it have killed her to do something as simple as kiss him somewhere? Touch his hair? Anything?_

_Despite this, he must have rocked her world because she purrs as she looks up at him. It’s kind of funny in a ridiculous way, because the sound she made matches her eyes – modified to look like a cat’s pupil for god-fucking-knows why. She touches her finger to his nose playfully as she slides herself up his chest to peer at him better._

_“A little birdie told me you enjoyed hearing secrets.”_

_Well, that’s pretty upfront, but at least it makes the task of wrangling one out of her easier. It also means she has something she’s willing to tell._

_“Birds like to chirp,” Finnick replies smoothly, cranking out one of his signature smirks to use on her, “and apparently so do the people who enjoy a good fuck.” He leans down, his breath hot on her ear as he whispers, “So tell me, Miss Lampiere, have you enjoyed yourself a good fuck?”_

_She giggles and swats his chest, her cheeks flushed despite her actions. Her eyes are lidded; her expression on cloud nine. She definitely has._

_Good._

_Finnick’s been waiting for a session with this woman for a very long time. Word on the street got back to him that she’s the sister of a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a big, fat secret._

_A history secret; the rarest of the jewels._

_She leans in close, her cat eyes alight with mirth. They scream “I know something you want to know!” and she’s greedy again as she milks his expression of wanton. He wants to growl, “come on bitch, I’ve given you mine now it’s time to give me yours!” but he doesn’t. It won’t get him far if he did; in fact, it will set him way back. You need to be chivalrous, slimy, and touchy with these people to get what you want most._

_So that’s what he does._

_His fingers scoop beneath the crevice between her legs; still wanting and waiting despite their designated time being up. It’s as if she were waiting for him to continue. Between the mewls and huffs and the moans as he glides his fingers skillfully between her, a single statement slips through her moist lips, painted as blue as her hair and smudged with sweat and skin._

_“District Thirteen” and “alive” and “thriving” and “faster! Oh, God, yes! Faster!”_

As those thoughts close, the new ones arise.

These feature Mags.

Poor, old Mags, of whom he’s left behind on one of the nights to feature the biggest blow in all of Victor history. By now, she knows where he’s gone; her being the only soul he’d told of District Thirteen. Originally, he’d wanted her to join him on the trip, but in her health and state of mind she’d refused, afraid to pose as nothing more then a liability if she did. He wanted to argue, but something in his brain told him to keep his mouth closed and his expression focused. The journey would be perilous. And while sources have confirmed of its availability, they never actually told him _where_ to look, other then deep beyond the boundaries of District Twelve.

Finnick wanted more time to plan it out, but then the announcement of the theme for the Quarter Quell happened and everything was instinct. He left her behind but he knows she’ll be fine. They’ll protect her, the Victors of his District. They’ll make sure she’s not the one to be reaped. And if by some crazy, horrible instance they don’t, the tributes will make sure its quick.

She’s a woman of valor among the Victors from every District – they will make sure her death will be swift and painless.

Finnick shakes his head, not wanting to think about it anymore.

The wind from up in the trees rustles his hair and tickles his skin, and he sighs as he adjusts his footing on the branch, his limbs feeling like jelly as the immensity of how much he’s run and climbed in such a long stretch of time finally hits him. He’s about to crouch into a sitting position to hunker down for the night when he hears it.

A snapping sound. Too close to be coming from the ground below, the wind would have blocked it out anyway.

It’s when he’s beginning to panic that a branch is going to fall on him from above that the one beneath his own feet breaks away.

He can barely get the words _“oh fuck!”_ to tumble from his lips before he hits the ground.

* * *

 

 _It’s dark and everything hurts. He can’t feel his body. He’s not even sure he has one. Nothing works right. Where are his fingers? Where are his toes? Why can’t he open his eyes?_

_Then the giggling starts, accompanied by a symphony of cracking twigs. Hands scoop his limbs and pull and drag and he quietly panics. It’s more terrifying then the prospect of selling himself for sex. More alien. He can’t move. Why can’t he move???_

_As the blackness threatens to swallow him back up like the tide outside his window back home, one thought enters his mind: they will not take my breath._

_He fades out to the sounds of whistling laughter and his body being dragged over the Earth, deep, deep…_

* * *

 

He rouses to the scent of Capitol perfume.

No…that’s not right, there’s something _just_ off about the vaguely memorable smell.

It’s flowery, like the smell of the skin of women and men who hug him close as they ride out their pleasure or sigh into his neck, but that’s where the similarities end. While the perfumes and fragrances of the Capitol are sharp and heavy - almost odorous with the smell of mechanically engineered scent - what he smells now is milder and pleasantly sweet. It smells natural, not factorized. It smells like a meadow or Mags’s home garden that he helps preen in the spring, because lately she’s been too tired to do it herself, or the tropical fruits that hang from the trees in the Victor’s Village.

Despite this, it’s still a mystery to him why he smells such beautiful things. And for a moment, he sits there in frustration as he tries to piece it all together, when really the answers could be as simple as opening his eyes to see for himself.

So that’s what he does.

The flower scent makes a break for it as the sharp pain of the light hitting his unadjusted eyes moves into the forefront of his senses. He attempts to swat at the light, bringing his hand over his eyes as his eyelids flutter in feeble attempts to right his vision. His head is swimming, the rest of his body numb, like he’s doped out on pain meds. He lets a little groan escape his lips and suddenly it’s so painfully quiet in the room. It’s at this moment that he realizes that while he was too busy focusing on the smells of the room, he never took a moment to hone in on the tiny chatter of voices that flutter around him like white noise. That is, until they were gone.

He sits up abruptly, and cries out at a pain that shoots through his abdomen, rolling over to his side to take shaky breaths.

_At least they never took his breath._

Gentle hands flutter over him, cooing him into silence, and coaxing a drink that tastes of sweet citrus between his lips. It dribbles down the side of his face and his body turns to buzz of activity as the pain numbs and new feelings kick in.

Feelings he’s all too aware of and very much used to.

It’s as if he had taken the small pills the Capitol gives him on particularly overbooked nights – where his blood stream is spiked with caffeine and his libido is so strong he could practically hold a pile of books up with his dick. His head swims even more, the pain in his side slowly ebbing as a thick fog settles over his nerve endings.

Eruptions of girly giggles fill the room and he pushes his eyes open, taking care to sit up slowly this time as he takes in his surroundings with apprehension. 

A low burning light. Flowers of different colors, sizes, and smells strewn on the floor, obviously the source of that perfume smell he was pondering earlier. They’re underneath a large canopy…no, a tent. It’s all but dark, except for the trail of thick candles that burn in various spots around the space. He’s seated in a cushioned wicker cot, and it creaks as he looks around. The chirp of distant crickets, the trickle of tiny gasps and nervous laughter tingle through his muddled ears.

And girls.

Girls _everywhere_.

 _Naked_ girls; unabashed, laughing, staring all at him.

 _Beckoning;_ or, at least, that’s what his hazy brain is telling him. 

The giggling turns to reverie as a taller figure approaches, the only one clothed among them, her body dawned in a formfitting mesh dress, looking as if it were tailored by the trees themselves; green and sinewy with vines, leaves, and flowers. She’s obviously older then the others, her pin straight hair faded grey with age. She’s all edges and sharp lines, like the evil mistresses in the folklores District 4 would tell to the small children to keep them out of trouble.

Finnick blinks in confusion on what’s happening.

Then it dawns on him: he’s found it.

_District Thirteen._

“Human,” the woman with the straight gray hair greets in a grandiose manor, not unlike someone from the Capitol, but that’s where the similarities end. It’s obvious she’s a woman of authority here, from the way the others regard her with such valor. However, it’s also obvious she’s on the older side of about late 50s early 60s, from the color in her hair to the deep crow’s feet that crinkle out the sides of her eyes. If there’s one thing Finnick knows about the Capitol, is its immense fear of aging. Women will do anything to modify themselves in order to escape nature’s grasp, especially in women of higher stance. Hair dye, plastic surgery, skin colorization, liposuction – all common procedures.

But this woman is different. She stands tall, confident, in her skin. Even going as far as donning a mesh practically see-through dress, her bare body as put out to show as the rest of them. She regards Finnick with a look of stern authority, demanding respect with her eyes in order to receive respect from her in return.

“Welcome to my beautiful Colony.” She continues, gesturing to the walls of the tent around her.

Finnick cocks an eyebrow, a cheeky remark on his tongue – something along the lines of “what a beautiful land this seems” - but he swallows it back. It’s obvious she means the hidden, unknown space beyond the tents walls, but he doesn’t particularly care at the moment. He’s a little bit more than frustrated, to say the least. So far they’ve done nothing but drag him through the forest, drug him heavily, and laugh at his penis.

And, yes, they are in fact laughing at his penis, because it’s at this moment he realizes he’s as stark naked as the rest of them.

He doesn’t feel like being modest, though. They’ve probably drank him in enough already, and he’s had his fare share of Capitol customers ogling him. There comes a point where enough people having seen you naked tosses modesty right out the window.

Instead, he looks around the tent again, at the row of girls behind the authoritative woman, who blush at the sight of his gaze and whisper amongst themselves.

“Yeah…” he responds, flicking his gaze to her face. She’s watching him expectantly, with an air of challenge in her expression, as if she’s saying _“choose your actions wisely.”_ He should know, it’s a look Finnick’s seen plenty of times on President Snow. But this isn’t Snow, and he has nothing of worth for her to barter with now. Still, something in the back of his head tells him to do what he does best: charm. “It’s amazing how well adjusted your District seems to be, despite the years of being wiped off the map. I mean, to be able to have such a lovely, enchanting woman such as yourself in authority? I feel blessed just be in the presence of such a beautiful group of ladies.”

The girls giggle and he gives a quirky smirk in response. The leader, however, doesn’t seem very vexed. She quirks a thin eyebrow up, her lips pressing into skinny lines. He continues to babble, sure he’ll strike a nerve somewhere.

“I mean if I would have known I’d be surrounded by some of the most ravishing women in all of Panem, I would have fixed myself up better.”

“What is a ‘Panem’?” One of the girls in back row inquires, her expression alighted and drunk off his compliments.

 _What is Panem??_ “Uh…Panem? You know, the Capitol…Districts…” They all look back at him as if he’d grown three heads, “Supposedly blew you out of the sky?”

The girls chatter and whisper at his words until the leader holds up her hands to silence them, “What are these things you speak about?” 

Finnick blanches, blinking rapidly at her question. It’s obvious they have no idea what or where Panem is so that begs the question, where is he and _who_ is it that he’s talking to right now?

“This…this isn’t District Thirteen?”

“No,” she scoffs, as if he asked her to pick a dead bug off the sole of his shoe, “this is not one of your…cities.”

_Okay then…_

“So, where am I?”

“Did I not just tell you that you are in the Colony?” She demands, obviously getting annoyed. One of the girls in the back shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

“My Queen…” she murmurs and the leader turns to look at her curiously, “Please do not get angry with him. He is obviously confused.”

“Yeah,” Finnick quips and The Queen turns to look back at him, “cut me some slack.”

The Queen narrows her eyes at him, not pleased they’re ganging up on her. Setting her shoulders back, her jaw jumping with tension, she turns to the row of girls, their eyes wide at the attention from her. “Girls, please take your presence outside and wait. It is time for me to converse with the guest alone.”

“Yes, of course, my Queen,” The one who spoke out among them says, breathless with the sudden heat being thrown in her direction. With a bow, the girls shuffles outside the tent, but not before catching a backwards glance at him, their eyes roaming his presence with mystification. He cranes his neck to watch them go, as perplexed with them as they seem to be with him.

The Queen’s shadow dances against the candlelight as she adjusts her position to stand between the tent flap doors and his gaze. He leans back onto his arms, using his elbows to support his weight. Sitting up was proving to be exhausting, a light sheen of sweat sitting on his forehead. Noticing his struggle, the Queen moves like a shadow to a small side table holding a pitcher and a few tall cups. Pouring a drink, she glides over to hand him the cup, her expression unreadable.

“Drink,” she commands, “You’re injured, and you need it.”

Finnick takes the cup from her hands, hesitant to bring it to his lips, instead opting to set up a distraction, “I am? I don’t feel like it.”

She eyes the cup, but then her gaze flickers up to him, “That’s because we’ve been treating you for several days now. You’ve been asleep through most of it, though. For a short while you even had a fever, but that broke a few days ago. Do you not remember what happened?”

He thinks back to it. He can feel the thick, textured bark of the trees, his limbs burning the further up he climbed, the exhausted.

He remembers the snap of the branch breaking.

“You fell out of a tree.” She states, taking his silence for amnesia, and he winces at the bluntness of it.

“Ahh…” he mumbles with a sigh. A dull pain flares up on his side, whatever they gave him a few minutes ago starting to wane off. He still feels aroused though, which is uncomfortable and awkward given who he’s alone with.

The Queen stares at him, waiting. He looks at the liquid in the cup, smells the weird citrusy aroma it casts. “What is this? 

“Medicine. Pain relief.” She says.

“Stimulant.” He quirks as he gestures to his erection. She merely sighs.

“Yes, we’ve noticed the strange…affects…that the elixir has on you. I apologize for that.” 

He nods, slightly taken aback from her abrupt apology. “Listen, I appreciate the help. Really, I do. But I need to get going.”

“I don’t think its wise to be traveling anywhere in your current condition.” Though it’s phrased like advice, Finnick easily picks up the undertone of a threat under her words. He’s suddenly cautious.

“Uh-huh…” he watches her a moment with a roll of the tongue, assessing her completely before sitting up again. A lightening bolt of pain shoots up his side again, in his ribs, but disappears after he’s settled. He pulls a breath in between his teeth, hissing quietly.

The Queen watches him with a hint of disgust, clasping her hands in front of her.

He sighs at her expression, “I understand your concern…or, actually you know what, I don’t. You don’t know me, I don’t know you.” He closes his eyes a moment, a wave of nausea hitting before he continues, “We’re pretty much strangers. So why waste all your supplies on me, when instead I just go?”

“And how, do you suppose, you’ll get there?” She smirks as if entertained by his haste, “Hmm? Do you even know where you are right now? Do you know where you’re even going?”

“I’ll figure it out.” He quips, suddenly annoyed. “I’m not an idiot.”

Her eyes narrow and she leans close, her eyes burning fierce, “You are a far cry from home, human.”

 _Human._ She says it like one would say the word _snake_ , or _vomit_. Like she’s beneath him, not human herself. She sits back on her heels, regards his expression as she adds, “I’d like to strike up a deal with you.”

 _A bargain, huh?_ “Didn’t take you for the give-and-take type. Figured you’d just snap your fingers when you wanted something and everyone would shout _‘how high?’_ ”

“Very funny,” The Queen says flatly, “But I get the impression you’re not in a position to walk, much less jump.” She leans in again, the scent of lavender swimming around his foggy head, “I will trade you a map, for a month of service to me.”

“A map?”

“Yes. Do you think I don’t have knowledge of your human territories?” She snorts, obviously pleased the ball is now in her court. “I know exactly where your beloved District 13 is and I’d have no trouble giving it to you in exchange for your service.”

“What kind of service are we talking here…?” He asks, hesitant. 

“To be frank, my girls are lonely,” she frowns, “We are a Colony of only women, you see.”

Suddenly the fog that filled his veins turns to ice, and his breath catches in his throat.

_Please don’t fucking tell me…_

“I see.” Finnick chokes out, his heart thrumming in his throat. 

“I know it is a big request, but it is my only request.” She tips her head back, “My subject’s morale is low and this is a simple fix. Plus, consider what your end of the deal will reap.”

He swallows, shutting his eyes tight. His mind is sporadic, and his chest feels tight, as if he’s being restrained. _Think, Finnick, think._

Can he really withstand another month of this? Of being captive through this horrible service? At the will of another person’s power?

Can he do it for freedom? 

Yes. Yes he can. And he will. 

“Fine.” He hisses through his teeth, eyes still shut. “Fine, I will take your bargain.”

He opens his eyes, his expression fierce, “I will provide myself if, and only if, you give me the map and leave me alone once the month has ended.”

“You have my word,” The Queen extends her bony hand, skin glossy white and thin as paper, and Finnick hesitantly returns the gesture with a shake. He holds on to her hand tight, a warning in his eyes.

“Do not cross me, queen,” he warns. It’s a threat he’s not sure he can really uphold, but she needs to know she cannot hustle him. Not this time.

Her eyes roam his face, expression calculating, before nodding sternly, “I give my word, that as long as you live and fulfill your service, you will receive your map in return.”

They hold each other’s faces for a moment, and if there’s a bluff behind her words, he can’t find it. As soon as he releases her hand, she makes her way to the exit.

Pulling the tent flap back, she looks over her shoulder at him, eyes flickering to his still full cup, “Save yourself the pain and drink. You’ve got a busy few days ahead of you.” 

As she disappears from the candlelit room, Finnick sighs and knocks back the drink in his hand, desperately wanting to be numb.

Warmth spreads over him and his blood tingles as he closes his eyes.

His breath is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The whispers among the others were that a human man turned up in the Great Forest.

Anneyce heard glimpses of it through the day. The quiet tones between each of the nymphs as they discussed it, like walking daintily barefoot over glass, so soft its almost overpowered by the electric buzz of excitement. Bouncing tongues exclaimed hopes, threaded stories, tripped over self-placed details.

_“Can you believe it? A human man!”_

_“He was dragged into the Colony before anyone could see, and has been here for days now, without anyone even knowing it!”_

_“How could he have possibly gotten past the Guards of the Great Forest?”_

_“I heard from Flauva that he was so badly injured and practically unconscious, that the Guards figured he was dead anyway.”_

_“The poor thing!”_

_“Bless the Queen for thinking on her feet and bringing him in!”_

As she unintentionally eavesdropped, thoughts spun through her mind; trying to thread together her own story based off the gossip. If there were indeed a human man in the Colony, where was he? Why were they hiding him from us? Why bother to bring him if he were as near dead as the Guards believed him to be? The Guards of the Great Forest would _never_ be as careless as to let him slip by if there were even an inkling he would live to see another day. He must certainly be snagged in the claws of death.

A great blow this will be on the Colony if he really was here, but were to die before the ritual could even take place.

“Why do you look so serious, Anneyce?” Johanna teases, poking her arm as she hooks them together.

“It just doesn’t add up to me, Johanna.” She murmurs, “In the hundreds of years, a human has never been able to cross over to the Great Forest, so why now? Why do the Guards let him through _now?_ ”

Around the town square, a flurry of activity from the Colony is under way. The Queen has not even confirmed the rumor of the human man’s appearance, but yet everyone is already preparing their homes for his arrival between moments of chatter. Lights are strung, flowers are preened and planted, walkways are swept. Nymphs wrap vines woven with sweet scented flowers around their shoulders, and hang garlands from their doors and windows. Music fills the street in different tunes as the nymphs sing joyful, hopeful songs. 

Anneyce’s heart twinges at the thought of none of this being true, of the devastation that would no doubt take place.

The two make their way through the square to the rim of where the Great Gardens reach the homes of the Colony. As they step through the brush, charts of many different species of flora and plants in their hands, they embark into the Great Gardens to begin the day’s work of horticulture. Today, they will be studying and marking down the growth and stability of the plants in the Great Gardens, calculating how well they are doing. In particular, they are looking for signs of death that comes in the variety of brown, shriveling, and falling off.

If and when the Great Gardens inevitably die out, the Colony will not survive, so it’s important to find out how much time is left. 

Anneyce is busy studying a patch of wild lady slippers, when Johanna’s crunching feet approach behind her. She looks up to find a very distraught expression on her friend’s face.

“Today’s charts are grimmer then the last time.”

Anneyce nods, frowning at the thought, “A lot more dead life this time. The Queen will not be pleased to hear it.” Her heart hangs heavy at the thought.

“This is why we need to hope, Anneyce,” is all her friend says in response. 

* * *

The thoughts of the dying Great Gardens swims through Anneyce’s mind as the two make their way back to the square. It’s a grim thing, the irony of her sad thoughts mingling with the cheerful buzz around the town square. The numbers on the charts in their hands do not look promising at all, even after she made sure to check every leaf, count every delicate petal. She doesn’t understand the necessity of going out to see the damage done to the Great Gardens; they aren’t helping anything. They’re just making the finality of the situation more concrete.

A loud, uniform cheer pulls Anneyce from her mind and into the present. She barely registers what’s happening before she looks to her left and finds Johanna has taken off in a dead sprint towards the center of the town.

This can only mean that the Queen is here to speak to the Colony.

Anneyce takes her time, afraid to hear what the Queen has to say. It’s possible she’s here to dispel the rumors of the supposed dying human man, and she can’t bear the thought of seeing the crushing expressions of despair around her. The chart in her hands burns under her fingertips. 

She finds a spot beside Johanna, standing on the tips of her toes as she tries to see over the crowd. Despite being one of the last people to arrive to the square, a few nymphs fall behind her, forming another layer of the ring that circle the center where the Queen must be standing. It’s packed and Anneyce finds herself reaching to hold Johanna’s hand. Johanna’s fingers entwine with hers and give her a reassuring squeeze, her expression solemn. 

A hush falls among the crowd and Anneyce catches her breath. She can barely hear the Queen’s stern voice among the heads. Everyone is dead silent, showing their respect for their great mother Queen as she speaks, but even so Anneyce can barely make out her words.

“Thank you _all_ for taking time out of your busy day to hear me today,” the Queen begins, her soothing voice smooth, “now before I begin, I would like the two individuals responsible for today’s horticulture reports to step forward?”

Anneyce’s heart skips a beat, and she only moves her feet because Johanna is pulling her forward. Everyone steps back to let them through.

“That would be us, Queen!” Johanna announces, waving her charts in the air. Anneyce feels a great sadness. If the Queen wants to know the reports, then the news she has in store can’t be good…

“Hello, Anneyce. Johanna.” The Queen greets and the two bow respectively before her.

They hand a member of her royal guard the charts, who in turn give them to the Queen. She takes a moment to look them over, her brow smooth and her expression giving nothing away to what she’s seeing. A confused air fills the square as the onlookers grow uneasy from the exchange. What is happening? Why would the Queen call us all together just to read the horticulture reports for the day?

The Queen hands the charts to a member of the royal guard beside her and smiles gently at the two of them, before raising her eyes and her hands before the crowd. 

“My dear, sweet children!” She calls, “For years, the affects of the dying Great Gardens has weakened our Colony and destroyed our moral! The charts that were in my hands are only bleak proof of the devastation our beautiful Colony is dealing with. Under normal circumstances, reading the horticulture reports would sadden my heart greatly.” Anneyce frowns at the thought, “But today, you must know, that there is hope!”

Anneyce holds her breath as the crowd buzzes to life, twitching and murmuring in excitement as they hop from foot to foot and wait for her to say it.

To _finally_ say it.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumors by now,” the Queen dispels, and everyone is too excited to even try to look bashful at being caught spreading rumors through the town by the Queen herself, “and I am here to reveal to you the truth.” A collective breath… “There is, in fact, a human man among us today.”

Someone cries out, topples over in the crowd as they faint. The sounds of cheers and blissful sobs fill the air as relief crashes like a tide. Anneyce’s heart contracts like a curling leaf, and she stumbles back, Johanna catching her before she can crash to the floor.

“I told you to keep hope!” Johanna murmurs in bewilderment, her eyes alight. “I _told_ you, Anneyce!” Johanna’s hands squeeze on her shoulders and Anneyce’s knees wobble.

The Queen holds out her hands to still the crowd, but the joy of this situation is too great.

There’s hope for the Great Gardens.

_There’s hope for us all._

“Behind me, is a tent,” The Queen calls, gesturing behind her, “and within the tent, is the human.”

Anneyce peers behind the Queen’s shoulder, to see the tent, a flicker of light that sends sparks down her spine.

He’s in there. _Right now._

The crowd quiets again at her words, as they crane to see over one another at the tent, as if they will catch a glimpse of him.

“He is weak, but very much alive and healthy. The royal guard found him on the outskirts of the Great Gardens, badly wounded and unconscious, but _alive!_ ”

So the rumors were true, the Guards of the Great Forest left him for dead.

“His resilience to survive is not only a blessing, but a wondrous trait he will no doubt pass on for generations to come!”

A cheer rings the air at this. Survival is in the air, a relieving taste on Anneyce’s tongue. Finally receiving a human man in this time of great peril is a blessing in itself, but it’s like they were blessed by the Great Gardens themselves to have a human with such strength and will to survive. After years of fear of extinction, the chance to pass this trait on to the colony is amazing in itself.

Anneyce wishes her mother were here to see this. Her heart tightens at the thought.

“The ritual will begin at once,” the Queen announces, and her eyes fall upon Anneyce, “And, Anneyce, it will be _you_ who will sing the first song.”

A collective gasp among the others, mixed with a cheerful giggle at the prospect of finally getting the ball rolling, fills the area. All eyes turn to Anneyce, and she tugs at the spiraling ends of her deep coal hair. Johanna bumps her shoulder with her elbow, casting her attention to her as Johanna’s eyes grow to the size of the boulders Anneyce used to climb on as a child.

“But, Queen, why me?” Anneyce murmurs shyly, her hands crossing over her breasts as she rubs her arms.

The Queen snaps her delicate fingers, and an assembly of the royal guard bring her flowers weaved into delicate jewelry, baby’s breath, purple anemone, peony, and ranunculus, to name a few. The Queen reaches over, placing the flower jewelry into Anneyce’s hair and around her neck. It hangs low, brushing down her collarbones in a cornucopia of colors and perfumes. Flowers are abundant in the Colony – every species of plant grows here. They are a commodity; their various species represent honor and bliss among the nymph folk, but to receive flowers from the Queen herself is an honor Anneyce will forever hold to her heart.

“I want you to sing because you are of the last descendants of nymph children born of human. And, like your mother’s before you, your song voice is one of the most beautiful of the Colony.” The Queen states simply, placing another wreath of flowers in her to Anneyce’s hands, most likely for the human man in the tent behind her. “That is why it should be you to begin this sacred and very much needed ritual.”

Hundreds of years ago, a human set foot into the Colony for what was only the 6th time since the beginning of everything. The nymph Colony of then were overjoyed and blessed – it having been almost a full three hundred years since the last human arrived in the colony before them. The nymph children were practically starved out. And a ritual - much like the one that was about to occur tonight - happened. Anneyce’s mother was among the hundreds of nymph children in attendance during the festivities. She still remembers her mother’s description of the human fondly.

_“Handsome, Anneyce.” She would tell her, her fingers weaving into her hair the flowers that grew everywhere, geraniums and orchids and bleeding hearts. “It was as if he were grown and harvested from the very soil of the Great Gardens. Broad shoulders, big, gentle hands, and a rich face with dark glassy eyes. Such a sweet human, he was; such a wondrous gift to the kingdom.”_

This gift brought upon pregnancies within the colony, until exhaustion stole his breath and he returned to the Earth as soil, to mineralize the Great Gardens of the colony that keeps us alive. The mothers glowed – the colony finally flourishing after years of dry spell. Babies were born on the day where the sun hung in the sky the longest – Anneyce being among them.

At last, the colony was growing again.

They were all baby girls, however, a curse among the Colony. Because of this, nymph children are unable to repopulate until the next human man arrives again.

_“Not a curse, Anneyce,” her mother would scold, “but a blessing. Without all girls, we would never be able to experience the pure bliss of having a human man arrive at the Colony.”_

This bliss was infinite until the Guards of the Great Forest inexplicably forbade any entrance or exit to the Great Forest, providing a devastating day among the nymph colony. If no one was allowed to enter the Great Forest, humans would never return to the Great Gardens to continue the tradition of reproduction. Without humans, the Colony not only loose out on a chance to produce more offspring, but the Great Gardens begin to die when there’s no body to mineralize the soil. Linked forever, the Great Gardens provide the life source that keeps the nymphs healthy and alive for thousands of years and generations. The Colony would eventually die out when the Great Gardens did.

A few of the nymphs who lived for eons have already begun to perish in order to help cultivate the waning life source in the Great Gardens; among them, Anneyce’s own mother. The day Anneyce lost her beloved mother was a dark, dark day she never thought she’d have to witness.

This death of a species has hung in the air for years now, and every day the colony faces the peril of knowing it is a distinct possibility that they will be the next to die. Exhaustion is now common among the Colony – as if the air itself was beginning to be sucked away. Anneyce feels it with every breath she takes, an ache in her chest as if her lungs can never get enough air. She tires easier then before, too. Most of the older nymphs in the colony are bedridden and constantly in pain.

The Colony _needs_ this new human man to survive.

Anneyce touches the flowers that hang around her neck closest to her own heart, her poor mother’s face in her mind and her heart. Even the beautiful dark human whom she’s never seen, who is flesh and blood her father, flickers to mind as she nods her head solemnly at the queen.

“I accept this responsibility with deep honor, my Queen.”

The Queen smiles gently as the cheers from the rest of the Colony fill the air like one of the precious songs passed down from generations.

The first song is the most important part of any ritual; and it must be done with such secluded privacy that not even the Queen may witness it. Despite the members of the royal court who dragged the human into the colony in the dead of night, Anneyce will be the first one in the entire Colony to see him. Her hands quiver as she approaches the tent and gently pushes the flap aside, the flutter of activity like a drone of honey bees behind her, as the rest of the Colony hurries to their own homes to continue their preparation for the ceremony. She pushes through with one last look behind her, the Queen standing solemnly and waiting for her to begin.

The tent is warm and smells of sweet, rich soil and iris as she enters. A deep beam of torchlight sparks a honey glow on the walls, flickering shadows in her least perspective areas of her vision. The smell, a result of the purple flowers tucked in every nook and cranny, hanging like thick fingers reaching towards the center of the room.

He sits in a chair on the far end of the tent, a wall of Queen Ann’s lace draped behind him, and Anneyce takes a moment to catch her breath. At his feet, are the some of the finest and most cherished flora among the Colony, particularly because they are the Queen’s own personal favorites.

She’s lived most of her life listening in reverie to her mother telling stories of the human man of her time. Her ceaseless telling of his marvelous beauty left her in awe and giggling.

_“There is no flower that grows in the entire Colony that compares to him, my dear Anneyce.” She would say._

_“Not even the roses you love so much, mother?”_

_“Not even close, my sweet.”_

Anneyce could never believe that. Even now, in their dying life as the soil turns over to try and conserve what life source is left within it, the flowers are still so _beautiful_. Their colors and aromas never quell the love she feels for them, with so many names and meanings for each and every kind that grows in the Colony. She remembers as a child, when they were healthier, their colors brighter and perfumes stronger, how it was hard to even come to a state of mind to pluck them from the ground, knowing they would sooner die if she did. How could a single human man bare in comparison?

Well, Anneyce understands now.

The human man before her bares no resemblance to the irises that fill the room, or the plant life that hangs from her own neck and spills over in her hands; he is something more, an even sweeter treat for the eyes.

His hair resembles strung gold, as if it were plucked straight from the sun and placed on his very head. His skin, rich in deep tones and taught over sinewy muscle, stretches over his angular body like a kiss from the sky. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair he sits in are large and powerful. Draped over his shoulders and spilling into his lap, is a shawl weaved from vines plucked from the trees, with orchids and daffodils folded in.

He watches her with eyes that ignite a fire in her belly.

She pictured the human man from mother’s stories in many different forms – dark, deep, rich as soil but gentle as a flower’s petals - but nothing could have prepared her for _this_ human.

She approaches him carefully, holding the necklace of flowers for him in front of her like an offering. His expression is hazy – the work of the elixir given to him probably hours ago. The elixir is a drink birthed from generations of rituals, its purpose to ignite libido into him and prepare him for the colony’s use. The first song she’s expected to perform for him doesn’t really _do_ anything – it’s more of a tradition then anything – it’s actually the elixir that does the real work.

Tentatively, she places the necklace around his neck. When she pulls back, she notices a wry smile on his face. Up close, the bridge of his nose - slightly crooked with a small bump in the center - is blanketed with an array of freckles, distinctive like the stars that come out when the sun and the moon decide to both lay together on the same night. His eyes are a stirring color of green that barely competes with her own. While the green of her eyes is something her mother would compare to the leaves on the trees, or the vines that hang from the sky, the human’s eyes are a shade she’s never seen in the Colony before. No flower, no blade of grass, no branch has ever been _this_ kind of green.

The babies he brings forth will have beautiful, beautiful eyes.

_Maybe yours will be that color, too._

A flutter hits her belly at the thought, and it fills her with nerves.

His hand reaches up to cup her cheek and she starts. He tugs her forward a little, and she lets out a little gasp, but doesn’t pull away. His hand is warm and calloused on her face, like the sunshine that tickles her face on a summer afternoon, but without the annoying prickle of growing sunburn. His breath wafts over her nose, sweet smelling from the aftertaste of the elixir he drank, his eyes cloudy.

“Am I dreaming?” He breathes slowly, his eyes fawning over her body, until meeting back up to her own. The haze in his eyes melts away as his expression looks searching, confused even.

“Of course not,” she murmurs, her face flushed, and confused by the silly question, “you are clearly not asleep right now.”

He blinks, and then chuckles nervously, dropping his hand from her face. He pulls a hand back to rub his neck and falls forward, his elbows gingerly placed on his knees with his eyes trained on her. He does that action of fanning his eyes up and down her bodice again and she’s not sure why, but she feels both bashful and inflamed at the sight.

“Naked women everywhere,” he breathes, almost seemingly to himself, “and you’re telling me that I’m _not_ dreaming?”

She wrings her hands out in front of her. She should really begin the song now, but she can’t bring herself to start the ritual just yet. If she does, he’ll be whisked away as soon as the song ends, and she will not see him again until he arrives at her home tonight.

But the Queen and her royal court outside are waiting for her to begin. If she fails to do this task, they’ll surely pick someone else to do it, which will be shameful.

She just wants more time with this beautiful creature is all. But that is a selfish thought, when the entire Colony is waiting on her.

“Human,” she begins, “your presence here today is a magnificent gift to the Colony. We have waited a long, long time for you to arrive.” She steps forward, her hands cupping either side of his face. She crouches to the floor to be below his eye level, and he watches her with confusion on his face. “On behalf of the Queen herself, as well as the Great Gardens, I wish to thank you for your sacrifice to come here and provide yourself for the glorious wonder of rebirth to the Colony.”

He studies her expression and she smiles at him wonderment. She already feels the love and gratitude swelling in her chest; something her mother would always tell her about, but nothing she’d ever hope to experience first hand.

 _“Just one look into his eyes, Anneyce, and you will feel it,” she would whisper with her hand on her heart, her expression far away to another place and time, “He stirs in you something dormant and waiting. Something not even the flowers can give to you.”_  

“On behalf of my mother,” she whispers to him, “ _I_ thank you.”

His eyes are hooded as he watches her. His hands reach to land on her shoulders; warm like the water in the springs of the Great Gardens. “What did I do?” He asks, his voice lost.

“It’s not what you _did_ but what you _will_ _do_.” She beams at him, willing him to look as excited and full of love as she feels. Her heartbeat accelerates at the prospect of being able to share her bed with him. “What you will _provide_.”

“And what is that?”

“Yourself.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, just a small heads up, this chapter will probably be as graphic as the sexual stuff gets in this story. The tone in regards to sex will definitely shift after this chapter, so if situations like this make you uncomfortable, just know it won't really continue on in this fashion as the story progresses.

_Yourself._

It’s a haunting word that comes from her lips, and his stomach pitches at the sound of it.

How much of himself has he already given? How much time had he spent running because of all he had given? Only to arrive back here, shackled, and expected to give even more?

The girl’s smile is prominent, blissful innocence, as if what she asked of him were a great honor. A magnificent deed.

What had she called it?

A “ _glorious wonder of rebirth_.”

What the fuck does _that_ mean?

Okay, well, he knows _what_ it means. He knows all too well what he’s expected to do, even though he doesn’t like it. But if the Queen promised a clear route out of here if he fucks every girl in this place, then so be it.

Her hands drop from his wrists to fall to his knees and he starts at her serious expression, a hint of surprise in her eyes that he knows all too well.

Holy fuck, is she going to suck his dick?

Right here? _Right now?_

Instead, she pulls away and uses his knees to help push herself up, scooping a handful of the flowers at his feet up as she goes. She places a few of the more vibrant, exotic looking ones in his lap; the rest goes in her hair. It’s a pretty head of hair, deep, rich, dark brown. Like charcoal, that flows in spindly spirals down and over her shoulders in an ebony waterfall. It looks really soft, too, and Finnick almost reaches up to touch it.

 _Fuck_.

The shit they gave him to drink is still a buzz in his system; sending weird erotic signals to his body that his brain isn’t exactly agreeing on. So while he sees a pretty girl, and his body reacts to a pretty girl (more then usual thanks to the elixir they gave him), his brain is telling him that something is very, very _wrong_ here. The flight reflex is kicking in, but being completely overpowered by other urges. It’s a confusing thing to rifle through.

She walks to the other end of the tent, looking over her shoulder to smile at him shyly. He raises an eyebrow at her and she blushes, turning away.

She reaches into her hair to pull a flower out, gently plucking the petals away as she studies the tent, trying to be inconspicuous when she periodically peers at him over her shoulder. He constantly catches her doing it, and yet she quickly averts her gaze every single time. The scoop of her back swells over her backside, a tantalizing view until she turns slightly and the curves of her breasts become deft competition. Her lips pucker in a bashful smirk when she looks over at him for a fourth time, this time holding his gaze for a beat longer, before dropping her eyes to the crushed petals in her small, delicate hands.

“I should really stop stalling,” she murmurs, so quietly he’s positive she’s talking to herself more then to him, “but I want to be greedy.”

“Uh-huh…” he blows the response out slowly, watching her curiously. She peeks up at him to study his face, her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

She continues, smiling sadly into her hands, “The Colony has been waiting for this for generations.” She bites her lip, furrowing her brow in contemplation. She looks over at the entrance of the tent while lifting a shaky hand to quickly push her hair behind her ear, before taking the few steps back towards him. She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself of something; not really looking to him for conversation, but just a steady, unbiased ear.

She stops just before his feet, wringing her hands in front of her, her eyes sad despite the tiny smile on her lips. The girl falls to sit at his feet, her left arm draping over his kneecaps. She rests her chin on her forearm, staring up at him for a moment before closing her eyes and sighing. Finnick sits there in a daze, a little confused and a little intrigued. Her hot breath on his bare skin makes him twitch, and he curls his toes into the floor.

“I suppose I should start the song now, but all I really want is more time.”

“Song?”

Her eyes flutter up to meet his, and it’s at this moment he notices how pretty they are. They’re a tone that matches the richness of the plant life in this place, as if kissed by the trees themselves. A really rich, Earthy kind of green.

It’s a sign that she belongs here; that she’s native.

“The tradition was bestowed upon me by the Queen of our Colony to sing to you the first song of the rebirth ritual,” she states, that odd sort of reverie in her tone that she carries when she speaks of _the Colony_. They all have it. _The Colony_ this, _the Colony_ that. “It’s purpose is to worship the human and to welcome them into the Colony’s arms with a successful first night,” she states, smiling at him shyly, blush dusting her cheeks. 

_So, they sing to him to wish him a good night of fucking._

Well, that’s definitely something they’ve got on the Capitol. All Finnick ever gets is secrets, sometimes champagne and dinner, too, if he’s lucky.

She watches him quietly, her expression bashful. She really _is_ pretty; all soft features and innocent eyes, long hair and ivory skin. She’s got a freckle on the tip of her nose, a little off to the right, and she’s close enough that he could reach out and touch it, if he really wanted to. She laughs shyly at his staring, and he smirks at her in reply, wondering how she’d react if he _did_ touch it.

“So, are you going to sing or not?” He asks and she gnaws on her bottom lip.

“I suppose I should, huh?” She sighs, her smile sad.

“Well, I guess so,” he shrugs, “wouldn’t that Queen of yours get mad if you didn’t?”

She blinks, as if the thought never occurred to her, “The Queen, get mad? Oh, no, never! She’d never be mean to her nymph children. She loves us very much. The worst she’d do is have someone else do it.”

Finnick thinks of the Queen’s cold, calculating eyes and her quipped voice from earlier. He figures she must have this place hooked deep under her thumb for this girl to be under the assumption her glorious leader is such a saint.

He throws her a bone anyway, “Do you want to fail?”

She regards him with mystified eyes, “Of course not!”

He leans forward, so his nose is close to her own, “Well then, what are you waiting for?”

She opens her mouth, as if to answer him, but then lets it close abruptly after. Slowly, she pushes herself back to her feet to stand before him. Brushing herself off, she hooks his eyes with her own, the green piercing him so strong it’s as if he can practically smell the pine from the trees that color. When she opens her mouth again this time sound comes, in the form of song.

Her voice is sweet and smooth, like a bell or the chirp of a bird. Finnick pitches forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he listens to her intently. Her voice entraps him. It reminds him of the drowsy pull of the ocean as it laps at his feet, or the sinking feeling of sand between his toes. She holds him up with her voice, the song of something out of folklore - something Mags would probably be able to put a name to – and wrings him out to dry as the last of her tune carries out, as if sucked away by the torchlight by her feet.

She smiles at him when she closes her mouth and he barely has time to smile back before they’re flooding the tent like high tide back in District Four, the Queen the first to barge in through the tent flaps. The girl blinks in surprise, but her expression suddenly shifts from bafflement to complete elation. She’d finished and passed her task.

The Queen hustles her into a magnificent hug and compliments her on her song. Finnick’s got to give it to Queenie. She’s damn good at putting up a front and buttering up her “children.” However, Finnick sees right through it: once a snake, always a snake. She’s not wrong in this instance, though. It was a damn pretty song to come out of the girl’s mouth just now.

The girl is ushered out the tent flaps, but not without a backwards glance at Finnick. He holds her proud gaze with a sturdy one of his own, even going as far as to give her a small nod before she’s pushed out, though he’s not sure why.

He doesn’t have very much time to ponder it before the Queen’s lackey’s hands are fluttering over him.

“How are you feeling, human? Sore at all?” The Queen inquires curiously. Now that she asks, the fog of pain that’s just been momentarily lurking in the back of his mind slowly resurfaces. He withholds the information, however, afraid she’ll feed him more of that horrible liquid.

She studies his face skeptically at his silence, but he really couldn’t care less if she’s onto him or not. He’s only here to do a job and then get out – not to make friends.

With a pass of the Queen’s hand, the lackey’s get to work on combing out his hair and prepping him for his forced night of debauchery. Although it’s not unlike his prep team back at the Capitol, these girls are more apprehensive to touch him, as if just the sight of him were delicatessen enough to be browsed through a glass window, not manhandled and thrown about. They pull the plant shawl from off his shoulders, put flowers in his hair, and massage his feet and hands with sweet smelling oil.

They also study him. Though he’s sure they’re trying to do that secretly - like the girl who sang to him – but they’re none too sly about it. It’s apparently obvious they’ve never seen a dick before.

He’s not sure if that information puts him more at ease or does just the opposite effect.

The Queen snaps her fingers and the lackey’s cease their work and promptly empty out the tent flap, not without looking back at him one last time. He focuses his attention from their retreating bare behinds to look up at the Queen, her expression formal.

“Are you still clear of our terms tonight, human?” She asks, casually turning to pinch a drooping iris stuffed in the mesh of the tent. It reminds him strikingly of President Snow and his rose garden; on those numerous occasions he’s spoken to him in that godforsaken place. The forced nonchalance, and the quipped tones as you both hold back what you _really_ want to say. “You are to fulfill your gifts to the Colony until I say they are satisfied and, in return, you get to return home.”

“Not home,” Finnick stresses, “but District Thirteen. I get to continue my journey to District Thirteen.”

“This thirteenth district, then.” She amends, turning to watch him quizzically, “You never did mention why you were so focused on finding this place.”

“My old home was not home to me,” he frowns, “I was running away.”

“Whatever reason why?” She asks, as if she cannot fathom such an idea, and surprisingly enough, she seems intrigued enough to beguile an answer.

His response is matter-of-fact, “Because they were prostituting me.”

* * *

 Unfortunately, after the girl came to sing him the song, they fed him more of that citrus drink. His veins are pumping fire now, and his head feels faintly dizzy. However, the pain in his ribs is once again just a dull hum, something he can happily manage to ignore.

Shortly after his talk with the Queen, he was ushered out of the tent and into the night, bare-naked in all his glory under night sky. Looking up, he couldn’t find any stars, but instead just a full, pregnant moon. As they walked him through a small town - eerily quiet despite the supposed grand occasion of him being here - he takes care to look around.

Lined around what can only be described as a large dirt road cul-de-sac are various shacks of different size and decoration. Though they all appear to be made of the same materials – some kind of dark wood, thatched roofs, clay chimneys – the difference in design hops from shack to shack. Just behind each shack lies an expanse of thick, dark forest. He supposes they’ve either knocked down enough trees to stake claim, or happened across a large enough clearing to set up shop without disturbing the natural wildlife. In the center of the circle of shacks, sits his tent and a large spire of architecture to the right of it. Its design can only be described as a church; though he doubts that’s the purpose here. It’s possibly where the Queen abodes.

He doesn’t ask where anyone is. That will be answered in due time, he’s sure.

The first shack they stop at is no less then a few hundred yards from the tent, and he waits as the lackey’s knock quietly on the door before gesturing him inside. The Queen left long ago, probably to go preen her feathers and sharpen her talons or something. He’s a little surprised she doesn’t insist on watching with her beady little eyes as he does the dirty to her loyal citizens.

The shack is small, just a threshold that morphs into a melting pot of kitchen and bedroom. It’s rustic, with various bundles of herbs and flowers hanging from the low rafters and a large woven rug sitting under his feet. To the left, a small fireplace sits, crackling wood and providing a woodsy glow.

The lackeys leave bashfully, assuring him they’ll be outside waiting to let him know when it’s time to finish up and move on to the next home. He nods silently, watching them with a bored expression as they close the door behind him. A small, misplaced cough pulls his attention back to front.

The girl stands before him as bare as the rest of them, her skin aglow from the soft firelight.

He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t already so used to the sight to a woman’s bare body. Except, this time it’s different. Capitol people are, at best, grotesque with body modifications and unnatural vibrant colored skin. Their makeup smudges on his cheeks and thighs, leaving glitter etched into his skin no matter how many days he spends trying to scrub it all off, like ink marks in his pores.

These strange woodland girls are natural. Innocent, almost untouched.

The girl who stands before him can’t be any older then 22 or 23 in age. Her breasts are small and flat, giving the allusion of a boy’s build, but the roundness in her hips make up for that. She’s almost topsy-turvy in appearance, but her stance and the shape of her face bring up pixie-like qualities. She smiles at him that similar expression of elation that he’d received from almost everyone here, as if he were the embodiment of god standing before her.

 _We have waited a long, long time for you to arrive._ The dark haired girl’s voice echoes in his mind, and he guesses that means he really is - to them - a god.

The girl reaches forward to wrap a hand around his wrist and pull him to the bed, tucked in the far corner opposite the fireplace. His stomach sinks, but the liquid he drank earlier works through his veins to provide the opposite affect on his body then what he’s feeling. His arousal sparks as she pulls him to her on the mattress. Her hands brush against his erection and she giggles at the touch of it.

“You know, where I’m from, it’s considered rude to laugh at a guy’s junk,” he jokes easily, slightly disgusted with himself for how effortlessly he slips into routines; for playing along with the façade.

She looks at him curiously, “Junk?”

“Yeah…my junk.” He gestures to his penis, where her hands are now wrapped around delicately.

Her mouth pops into a little “O” as she understands, “I am so sorry! I did not mean to be rude to your…your junk!”

“It’s alright, really.”

“You may be rude to my junk if you wish!” She offers, “So as to be even.”

“No, no, I don’t want to make fun of you,” he assures. This is getting awkward fast. Of all intimacies he’s experienced, he’s never had something like this happen before. Usually the jokes work to put the girl (or boy) at ease, but this time it backfired, making Finnick the one who’s un-eased.

The girl just shrugs and smiles wider.

“I want to thank you for your gift.” She praises, leaning closer to him, her lips inches over his, “I’m sure the Queen is grateful for your sacrifice tonight.”

 _Yeesh._ Capitol clients were never this forward; and that’s saying something.

She awkwardly pets his groin with gentle pats and he flinches at the weirdness of it. Finnick’s pretty sure this girl has never touched a dick before, which is probably true. All the girls here have been looking at him like he was a big meal they were waiting to devour…this girl in particular. Her eyes are hooded with obvious lust and she licks her plump lips seductively. It’s kind of hot, until she taps on his dick like she’s playing the piano and he jumps. Carefully, he pulls her hand away from him, instead opting to take the lead here as he wraps them around his waist.

He feels that same kick he gets from the medication the Capitol gives him on particularly _booked_ nights; when he’s running from apartment to apartment with barely any time to button his shirt back up in between. And - like with the Capitol drugs - he can’t tell the chemically forced arousal from his own. It makes him uneasy, and he treads carefully.

“Have you ever done this before?” He asks as he gently lays her onto the bed. She scurries underneath him eagerly, excitement on her expression like a child on Christmas morning.

She shakes her head, her honey hair shaking out onto the pillow beneath her head, “No one in the Colony has. We were waiting for you to show us.”

_Double yeesh._

She mewls impatiently, her hands that he tucked around her waist dragging down his sides and back towards his groin. He swallows back a sigh.

This was going to be a long night.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm relieved on all the positive feedback I've been getting for this story - it means a lot! I was a little nervous publishing this, simply because the content about it can be seen as sort of risque/taboo. But, I'm glad that, so far, its been pretty well received! 
> 
> I've decided that I'll be updating new chapters every Wednesday, unless otherwise mentioned. 
> 
> Also, to answer a few questions I've been asked both on here and on ff.net: this story will switch POVs from between both Finnick and Annie. She'll be getting her "Annie" nickname in the next chapter, so don't worry ;) I just figured "Anneyce" as a full name was a better fit for the environment she's in!
> 
> Hope you all have a good rest of the week and see you next Wednesday :)!


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I just figured I'd take a second to plug my Wattpad account: ecroeuf.
> 
> I have this story posted there, and I must say after playing around with the website, I like the set up! I can set graphics and add playlists. It's also a place where I can publish some of my original writing, which is awesome.
> 
> I don't have much up there yet, but if you're interested, definitely feel free to take a look!
> 
> Alright, let's get this party started. See ya next Wednesday.

He arrives at her home a few hours after the sun dips beyond the trees and moon arrives to stretch out her light. The Queen's royal handmaidens show up first, with fresh flowers to adorn around her neck, and they all beam at each other quietly. Her expression mimics the elation of the handmaidens:  _this is joyous, this is wondrous, this is beautiful!_

"The Queen wanted me to wish you in particular a wonderful evening," one of the handmaidens whispers, her smile sheepish. She has short dark hair, her face round and kind.

"Tell her thank you," Anneyce responds softly, a hand on her heart.

They usher him in and quietly take their leave to assure privacy. His head hangs between his shoulders, gaze to the floor, but after the door closes he lifts his eyes to her form.

"Oh," he says softly once his eyes center on her, "it's you again." He doesn't say this unkindly, just matter-of-fact. She beams at him, proud that he remembers her out of all the others.

He stands in her home more exposed than when she saw him last. His shoulders are slumped, arched over himself greatly, exhaustion lining his face. Gone is the shawl of vines, showing his bare chest, scarred and slightly bruised, but still taught and muscular. Dimples pucker in certain spots of his body unseen before to her.

It suddenly hits her just how physically different he is compared to herself.

Despite the numerous examples of the physical form constantly on display in the Colony, she's never seen a body like  _his_  before. His upper half tappers into his lower body with bolder, sharper lines compared to the others in the Colony's. His hips are tucked and neat, instead of the roundish curve of her own, with thighs that are strong and thick and don't spill over like the feminine form.

She sits on her bed and pats the surface gently, smiling at him in excited wonderment. He shuffles almost robotically towards her, and as soon as he takes his seat beside her his hands latch onto her skin, a tired sigh escaping from his lips. One hand forms over the curve of her breast, kneading it softly while the other hand scopes the smooth skin of her left thigh, fingers trailing to the dip before her womanhood. His head drops, lips searching for the small expanse underneath her jawbone.

She gasps at the sudden touches, pulling away abruptly. Her hands wrap around his wrists, retching them away from her skin and holding them up and away from her.

His eyebrows knit in exhausted confusion as she gently places his hands back into his own lap before pulling her own between her knees. She watches him, kneading her bottom lip between her teeth.

The bags under his eyes are prominent. His  _exhaustion_  is prominent.

She suddenly remembers he was found just about a week ago, supposedly injured and unconscious. He probably didn't have enough time to rest and heal.

Her heart swells and pinches at the realization he's probably in  _pain_.

She reaches her fingertips to his face, pulling her knees up onto the bed to get closer to him, her thumbs brushing the bags under his eyes gently. "Are you tired?"

He hums under her fingers, closing his eyes tightly and nodding solemnly.

"I'm so tired, so, so tired…" He warbles into her hand and she frowns.

Tonight, he will visit the first half of the Colony, and then rest when day breaks. Tomorrow night, the second half. The night after that, he'll return to her home again.

_She'll have another chance._

Her heart hurts at the thought of him going through this again, however.

His eyes open slowly, hooded beneath eyelids and piercing her own. She smiles sadly at him. He returns it with an impish smirk.

"You're the first one to not jump my bones as soon as I enter the room," he murmurs, tilting his left cheek deeper into her palm. Her eyebrows knit together in bewilderment at his phrase, but she assumes it's just more of his silly garbling. "Thank you," he sighs, closing his eyes once more.

"You're welcome, human," she responds happily.

"Finnick." His eyes snap open, his expression solemn.

"Finnick?" She blinks, "Now, what is that?"

"It's my name." He responds simply, and then repeats, "Finnick."

_Oh._  In all her years, she's never heard of anyone ever knowing what the human's names were. Not even with mother, whose every word practically breathed of the human man who was Anneyce's father.

Her heart swells at the prospect of it, of knowing this human's name.

"What is yours?" His husky voice pulls her from her out of her mind and she starts a little.

"My name?" she responds and he nods, his eyes flickering from left to right as he studies her patiently, "My name is Anneyce."

"Ann-ace?" He puckers his lips and she giggles at his botched pronunciation of her name.

"Anneyce." She repeats, her hands pressing into his cheeks lightly, her fingers brushing against the spot just behind where his jaw meets the bottom of his earlobes. "Ahn-ee-ayce." She stretches it slow.

"Ahn-ee-ayce," he repeats and she nods encouragingly, smiling at him brightly. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, as if tasting the sound of it, "it's kind of a mouth full." He smirks tiredly and she blushes, "Would you mind if I called you 'Annie' instead?" He asks, his tone drowsy.

"Annie?" She repeats curiously and he nods. She thinks it over for a moment.  _Annie._  It's like a secret. She kind of likes it. "Okay, Finnick. You may call me Annie."

He smiles at her, but it holds less of the mirth she'd seen from before. Finnick looks sad, as if someone were pressing on his body. Anneyce wraps her arms around his shoulder, tugging him into her chest. Finnick's head rests in the scoop between her neck and shoulder like a piece of a puzzle, and gently, she pulls them down onto the bed. Misinterpreting her notions, she feels him stiffen under her arms before his hands move work to knead her flesh once more, his lips wet on her skin as he kisses her languidly. She shakes her head softly, stopping him again.

"No, Finnick," she murmurs, putting her fingers against his lips, "just sleep. That is all."

At her words, he sighs and it feels as if he were releasing his entire being into the air with the oxygen that leaves his lungs. His strong arms wrap her waist and he nuzzles against her, eyelids stapled shut. Anneyce listens quietly as his breathing evens out and eventually takes the form of slumber; safe and warm in her arms. She smiles, her fingers weaving through the thick, soft expanse of his golden hair. Her heart sings for the man in her arms.

_Finnick._

* * *

They knock an hour later, an abrupt set of taps on her door that stirs Finnick back into consciousness. It's a ten-minute warning for them to wrap it up so he can move on. She frowns, wishing he could have slept longer, but the girl next door is waiting.

The thought of it tugs at her in an ugly way; something she never would have imagined happening before. It is only natural he will move on to the next girl, jumping from home to home until sunrise, in order to meet the quota of half the Colony tonight. It's a schedule that she's supposed to feel prideful and joyous about. Everyone gets a chance at motherhood – the Colony gets the ability to grow and prosper.

So why does she get this disgusting feeling in her gut at the thought of Finnick touching another in the way she didn't get to tonight?

He lifts into a sitting position on her bed, his hair mused and his eyelids heavy with sleep. She bites her lip at the look of it, her heart swelling at the sight.

"Sleep well?"

"Yes," his voice is husky with sleep, but he smiles gratefully, "Thank you, Annie."

Her pride jumps at the sound of her nickname on his lips.

"You are welcome, Finnick."

The knocks on her door repeats itself, and this time one of the handmaidens pokes her head in the threshold of the door, smirking mirthfully at them in her bed. Annie blushes, even though they didn't do anything other than sleep. And even then, if they had done more, it shouldn't be something to be embarrassed about…

"Your neighbor awaits her turn to share in the gift, Anneyce. Time to say goodbye, please." The handmaiden says kindly, and Anneyce nods, but the handmaiden stays in the doorway.

Anneyce turns to Finnick and is sad to see the content look he had in his sleep is now replaced with a look of stone; like a shutter shade tuning her out as he prepares to embark on the rest of his night.

He watches her, his eyes green pools, clearer then the water in the springs of the Great Gardens where she bathes and swims. She cups his face in her hands, trapping his eyes to her own, willing him to see…to see  _something_. Of what, she's unsure. She just feels she needs to prove something to him.

"Goodnight, my Finnick," she whispers so quietly, so as the handmaiden not to hear. She wants his name to flow from her lips  _only_ ; like a sugary secret.

He nods in her hands, the stubble on his cheeks scratching her bare fingertips, "Good night, Anneyce."

The sound of her name sets a mixture of fires in her belly. She reaches down to take his hands in her own, her eyes suddenly serious, "Annie," she whispers fiercely, "Call me Annie."

He blinks in surprise but after a moment lets out a slow nod.

"Good night, Annie."

* * *

Anneyce can barely focus as she spends the next morning in town with Johanna. Today, their duties entail churning the soil in the ground of the area they use to grow the town's vegetables, but she's too focused on Finnick to think about what her hands should be doing. Unfortunately, it is more repetitive work then anything, so her brain has no problem taking the field day to explore every angle of the night she shared with the human man. It doesn't help that Johanna is attempting to pry during all of it.

Since she is in the second half of the Colony so her time with him is scheduled to happen tonight and, naturally, she wants to know what to expect.

The problem is Anneyce has no idea what to tell her since, technically, she hasn't experience anything more then Johanna has. She can't bring herself to tell her excited friend that detail just yet, though, feeling almost ashamed of her secret. And she cannot lie and say her turn is also due to start tonight, since it's tradition for the nymph who sang the first song to be placed under first rotation.

"I peered out my window last night for a few moments, just in time to watch him go from one home to another," Johanna admits quietly to her as they collect their dirty tools and make their way with the other nymphs charged with soil duty today to the creek to wash them off. "Even under nothing but moonlight he was pleasing to look at! His hair looked like fire!"

"You should see him up close." Anneyce blushes as she says it and Johanna's eyes widen. It's the first nibble she's given of her time spent with him.

"Do tell!" Johanna worms in front of her, hugging her gardening tools to her chest, the smudges of soil on her cheeks doing nothing to dim her mischievous smile. Finnick will have his hands full of her tonight.

Anneyce blanches at the thought, but then feels guilty about it. She should be happy Johanna will have her turn tonight.  _Right?_

"What do you want to know?" Anneyce asks hesitantly, nibbling her bottom lip.

"Something, anything,  _everything,_ " Johanna sighs, "Throw me a bone here, Anneyce! The first human man to step on Colony soil in  _decades_  and you haven't spoken a word about it!"

"It's unseemly to talk about a nymph's private dwellings in this subject," Anneyce echoes the words her mother used to speak to her when she would try to pry about her human father. While her mother had no problems providing the details on her time unprovoked, she never appreciated Anneyce asking the questions. And, in a way, she was right to be. The ritual process between the human man and a nymph girl is her own private business.

"You know I wouldn't be holding my tongue if the situation were reversed," Johanna states, a little too loudly. A few of the girls ahead of them on the trail to the creek cast her curious glances. Anneyce wonders if any of them shared their beds with Finnick last night, or if they were scheduled for tonight. And then she realizes that if she looks close enough she can tell. The girls who did have all of him share a soft glow in their faces, and the way they giggle to themselves gives it away. It sends a hot trill of anger down her stomach, enough to force her to try and shove it down.  _It's not right to think like that,_  she scolds herself.

Who is she to be so hypocritical? Blocking Johanna out one moment, only to ponder what the other girls had done moments later.

But the thing is, she's just as curious as Johanna. She's as much in the dark as her friend, in the respect that she's never done anything with Finnick but allow him to sleep beside her and share names, though just those two activities alone were enough to send her into a euphoria to match the other nymphs who spent all of themselves with him. She is curious what the real act they were supposed to copulate last night would have been like.

"He has fire hair," she begins quietly, and Johanna leans in closer to drink in her words, "And these beautiful green eyes. Not like my color, or any of the other nymph girl's colors, or the color of the trees in the Great Gardens – it's the color of the creek in moonlight."

"And his body? What of his body?" She means his physical form – his strong, sinewy arms, and gentle hands - the dips and mountains of his back, the broadness of his shoulders, and the tight copper of his skin.

"Gentle; strong," Anneyce's tongue combs her mouth for the right words, "I don't know, Johanna…he's warm. Very warm." She thinks of his head between her arms, the soft miss-communicated way he would touch her. She blushes, tipping her head down to cover it with the curtain of her hair. " _Skilled_ ," she releases a bubbly laugh at that last part.

Johanna catches her, pitches her elbow into Anneyce's forearm, waggling her eyebrows at her. Anneyce giggles, shoving her back gently. They reach the break in the forest that reveals the tiny creek, its clear trickling surface like bells to her ears. The two find perch on a large, mossy boulder, while the rest of the group clump and spread accordingly to clean off their own tools. Anneyce dunks her shovel into the cool water, watching as the dirt gets washed away with the pull of the water. They spend a few moments of quiet to scrub, the sound of bubbling creek water and clanking of metal tools breaking the silence occasionally.

"It's stupid to admit, but I'm kind of nervous," Johanna says after a moment and Anneyce stops in her movements to assess her friend's expression. She has her head dipped in the direction of her working hands in the creek, her lips taught and her eyebrows pinched, "You got to at least get it over with quickly. I've been waiting hours, not knowing what to expect."

Guilt tugs Anneyce's heart as she bites her lip and looks in the opposite direction, to the other end of the creek. A low hanging tree branch swoops over the water in a perfect arch, its prickly branching fingers practically touching the ground on the other side. She feels awful for withholding information all day. Johanna wasn't being nosy, just resourceful. Her friend's earlier statement of " _you know I wouldn't be holding my tongue if the situation were reversed"_  rings in her head.

It's true. Johanna wouldn't be able to hold her tongue if she knew Anneyce had asked, if only to help her friend.

With a sigh, Anneyce releases the things that had been playing in her mind through the day's work, her voice low so as the others don't hear, "I never actually performed with him last night."

The muffled clanking of Johanna's gardening tools underwater ceases and her head snaps up in Anneyce's direction, her expression wild and bewildered.

" _What?!"_  Her tone is loud and Anneyce flinches.

"He only slept, that is all," Anneyce whispers, casting a glance over her friend's shoulder to make sure none of the others were casting their eyes in the two's direction. To her relief, they appear oblivious, not hearing Johanna's outburst. Or they did hear and, knowing it was only Johanna, figured enough to not give it a second thought.

"He only  _slept_?" Johanna's voice is lower then before, thankfully sensing her friend's need to keep this conversation from prying ears, " _Why?_ "

Anneyce tells her friend everything: from the first glance at him in the tent when she was to sing to him; his look of awe and adoration as she sang. She tells her of the exhaustion in his eyes when he came to her home, to the robotic way he attempted to touch her body, in what Anneyce now realized to be programmed consciousness in believing it was what she was expecting of him. She tells him the content look on his face, as he slept on her breast, opting to leave out the details of sharing their names and the burning hot feeling she had in thinking of his hands touching another. Those were Anneyce's own private things – something she knows she'll never be able to share, not even with her best friend.

Her friend listens quietly, her expression contemplative. When Anneyce finishes, her mouth feels dry at the moisture it took for the words to leave her mouth, a sign that her tale was much longer and more detailed than she thought. She had been harboring enough words to fill a river. She pushes her hair behind her ears nervously as her friend mulls it all over.

"So…are you going to eventually do it?" Johanna asks after another few moments of silent, hesitantly reaching over to continue the task of cleaning the tools. Anneyce joins in as well, not wanting to draw the suspicions of the others on why they weren't doing anything.

Her friend's simple question floats around her mind and she nibbles her lip as she thinks it over. Would she eventually make love to Finnick? She knows it's possible – he is returning to her bed tomorrow evening. By then, he'd have intimately been with every nymph in the Colony but herself and the Queen. It's more than just possible – it's  _expected_. She realizes now how immensely strange it is she hadn't been with him yet; why the need hadn't taken over, like it really should have. And it's not like he didn't attempt initiate things. She had pushed him away  _three_  times last night.

"He'll be back tomorrow evening." Is all she responds and even Johanna knows how hollow it sounds of an answer.

* * *

A knock on her door wakes her with a start, her heart fluttering in her throat and her cheeks flushed. She pulls her quilt, knit lovingly by her mother, tighter against her chest as she tries to catch her breath.

Another softer knock, and then a voice, "Anneyce?"

"Come in."

The lithe girl pushes her way through the door, and catches sight of Anneyce tucked in her bed, eyes soft with sleep. Johanna's slight mouth tilts up into a playful smirk.

"Planning on sleeping through your chores today?"

Anneyce smiles, before pushing her hair out of her face. Johanna mills about her home, reaching for the kettle to set the tea, a morning ritual the two had shared for years now.

Anneyce tries to forget that it was a ritual borne from mutual sadness. Johanna was the only one who visited her in the months she spent tucked away like a social recluse under her covers, her mother's death shaking her into a dark depression. Those months, Anneyce wanted little to do with sunlight or flowers or living.

Johanna, having lost her own mother a year prior, understood.

She also understood that Anneyce needed someone to help make sure she bathed and ate. So she would come every morning, if only to wake her up and make her some tea. Talk if she needed it, or just be there quietly if she didn't.

Eventually, Anneyce found her way out of the labyrinth of her mourning. Some mornings she even woke and made the tea before Johanna had even showed up, which gradually morphed into her getting back into the routines of daily chores, her time to ignore giving back to the Colony spent.

And so a morning ritual - and a friendship - was born.

"I may need to trade for more honey," Anneyce's voice is thick with leftover sleep as Johanna rifles noisily through her cupboards,  _tsking_  and  _tutting_  under her breath.

"That's for sure. This thing is so empty the bears wouldn't even bother with it." She grumbles, "I'll just bring some of mine tomorrow."

After the kettle began to whistle and the two were situated on her bed, two cups of steaming tea in their hands, Anneyce let the sleep finally wash away from her body.

And then she remembered something.

"You had your turn last night!" Anneyce bounces in her bed at the revelation, a pinch of guilt in her chest at only just remembering now. She also feels a flash of that strange feeling, that sadness of Finnick sharing himself with someone else. But she stomps it down, because it scares her. Of course Finnick would be shared. He wasn't hers to own.

Johanna smiles weakly at Anneyce, before flitting her eyes elsewhere. She does not share the look of a nymph thoroughly taken. Instead, she just looks like normal Johanna. Features angled and hard, her lips, so used to pulling into a snarky smirk or a mischievous smile, now taught and thin.

"After we spoke yesterday, I had spent the rest of the day thinking over what you told me," She says softly, which is a jolt, because Johanna almost never says anything  _softly_ , "I thought about it a lot, actually."

"I wasn't planning anything from it. Not like how you had handled it, at least," she looks at Anneyce, her expression serious, "You need to understand that at first I had thought you were being awfully stupid. Selfish, even. Giving up your gift without a second thought, even after everything that has been happening to the Great Gardens."

Anneyce's eyes land to her tea, suddenly embarrassed and ashamed at Johanna's words. Strangely enough, though, she doesn't agree with her. What she had done – by allowing Finnick to rest – she felt she was doing a deed completely free of selfish needs.

"But then," Johanna sighs, and Anneyce looks up to see the same old smirk on her face, "later that night, he arrived to my home. He was all but carried in, actually." Her jaw sets, a telltale sign she was upset, "He looked practically dead on his feet. There was no way he was supposed to look that worn out. From what my mother had told me, their human had lasted them at least a month. But this human…" She tops that last part off with a shake of her head, her eyes vengeful, and Anneyce's heart breaks. Goodness only knows how much worse he had been after he left her home the other night.

"He wasn't given enough time to heal," Anneyce's voice is small, and she wraps her fingers tight around her mug of tea.

"No, he wasn't," Johanna says softly, her eyes now sad.

They're quiet again, the silence strange to Anneyce. She cannot remember a single moment where  _quiet_  and  _Johanna_  were ever in the same room.

Suddenly, the girl beside her shifts, putting her mug on the floor and turning to regard Anneyce with a gaze so serious it sets her ridged. Johanna wraps her hands over Anneyce's, the warmth from the tea seeping from one layer of hands to the next, "Anneyce, I want you to know that I did not do a single thing with that human man. Not last night, not after I saw how bad in shape he was." Her rich brown eyes lock on, begging Anneyce to understand what she's saying, "I want you to know that at that moment, when the royal handmaidens closed my door and left us alone, with him too weak to even stand in my kitchen without pitching over, I understood how wrong it felt. How wrong forcing him to do this felt."

"What did you do, then?" Anneyce breathes, unsure how to approach this serious Johanna, or even comprehend what she was trying to communicate with her. "What did you do with him?"

Johanna relaxes a little, pulling her hands away from Anneyce's, and even releases a little smile, "Well, first of all I fought off the urge to follow the handmaidens outside my house and give them a piece of my mind." Anneyce smiles at this. She can practically see Johanna marching outside and giving them her business, "Then, I took him under his arm and all but dragged him into my bed." She looks at the wall, jutting her chin out, "He passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. I sat in the rocking chair and watched him sleep, and roused him when they knocked on my door."

"That's all?" The question slips past her mouth before she can stop herself. She didn't have time to stop the small burst of desperation that laces her tone.

Johanna looks over, her eyebrow raised in a questioning expression before answering slowly, "That's all."

Anneyce's tense posture deflates and Johanna narrows her eyes at the sight, but she doesn't comment on it.

"I'm sorry if I made it seem like that was a choice to push into your own hands," Anneyce says, because she feels like she  _should_ say something, "That wasn't my intention."

"No, I know that," Johanna flips her hand, "Besides, what I did or didn't do last night was a decision I made on my own terms. Though, I admit, talking to you yesterday did help convince me what choice to make."

This admission warms Anneyce a bit, and she offers her friend a smile, reaching to squeeze her hand. Johanna accepts the embrace with a smirk.

"Drink your tea. I'd hate to see all that scraped honey will go to waste." Johanna says and Anneyce laughs.

* * *

He arrives to her home on her next rotation no better or no worse, and it's a relief to see that his condition hasn't progressed further. The bags under his eyes and the slouch in his walk, though, reek of his exhaustion. The handmaidens don't say a peep or make a fuss this time, only interacting enough to let him in and then close the door behind them. She wonders if they are as exhausted with this routine as much as he is.

Anneyce ushers him onto her bed, laying him on top of her mother's quilt. It's hot tonight, so he probably wont need blankets draped over him, but she offers it just the same.

He mumbles a reply, something she takes as a no, so she moves to replace the sheets in her hand but his grasp is sudden and strong on her arm. She turns to look at him, his eyes intense and for a moment, so, so awake; so  _aware_. She swallows against the intensity of it.

"Why do you do this?" He asks, and it's concrete, "Why do you let me sleep?"

And for the first time, she's faced with the dilemma of vocalizing just  _why_ she doesn't do what every other nymph in the Colony has done already. It's an easier question to swim around in, when its just her asking it to herself, or when it's disguised behind Johanna's questioning looks.

_Why does she do this?_

She asks this of herself daily, and every answer comes back different, depending on her current feelings. But they always end up landing on one concrete emotion, especially when faced with his battered form in the middle of the night.

"Because I don't think what's being to done to you is right," she pauses, gauging the impact of her words carefully, and she's surprised to find they don't burn when they are released. She's relieved she's able to give  _someone_ the truth of it.

His green eyes lock on hers and she wonders what he's searching for in her expression. Because he  _is_ searching, the taste of disbelief on his expression saying as much. After a moment of quiet searching, he offers a small nod, and his grip on her arm lessens as he sinks back onto her bed. In a flash, he's asleep, and she wonders if she imagined the whole interaction and he's been asleep all along. Anneyce watches him for a moment, rubbing the spot on her arm where his hand gripped.

She's unsure if he found what he was looking for.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I started the spring semester last week, so things are gonna get hectic fast (they already are rip ;_;)
> 
> Despite that, I'm really hoping to stick to my Wednesday update schedule! Wish me luck and have a great rest of the week.
> 
> See you next Wednesday!

The days blend together like a frothy mixture. If it weren't for the cycle of the sun as it dips up and down between the slits of the tent's door flaps, Finnick figures he would never know if time were passing at all. The time he spends away from touring the Colony is almost always reserved for sleep. As soon as he's delivered back to the tent, he downs the liquid medicine they provide and falls into a thick, dreamless coma. Normally, he'd be wary of the constant drugging, but by the time the rounds for the night end, he's in so much pain the medication comes as a warm relief.

No matter how much he sleeps, he wakes up even more exhausted the next day. It's as if this place were draining him from the inside out. He wants to ask the Queen how much longer he has to pull this charade, but every time he returns to his tent he's too exhausted and in pain to request to see her. And when he's working, it's so grueling that the only thing he can focus on is getting from one shack to the next without collapsing on the dirt roads between them.

The only reprieve comes on the moments he visits the girl who sang to him – Annie – and her shorthaired friend, Johanna. At first, it was an anomaly why these two were the only ones to give him pockets of rest. He didn't even realize the two instances were related, not until Johanna mentioned they were close, and he pieced it together.

Visits with Johanna fall along the same vein as they do with Annie, but with a different tone. He doesn't sleep when he's with her, as he finds it harder to in her company. Instead, she makes the both of them a cup of fruity tea and they fall into the monotony of a conversation.

She's spunky with varying degrees of abrasion to her, but he finds their personalities mesh well. She falls in line with his dry humor, and even volleys it back to him, which is hard to find in another person. They don't talk about the obvious. Why he's here, how he got here, where  _here_ is.

Sometimes, in order to hold a friendship, it's best to ignore the elephant in the room. Finnick's not stupid, he knows the way to keep this small blessing going is to tiptoe carefully around the unspeakable and not look back. Enough years of wading through Capitol parties, schmoozing with billionaire donors, and every single conversation he's ever had with President Snow have told him as much.

But he doubts Johanna can be likened to that of a President Snow. No, instead their friendship is one free of lechery. Or, as free of it as the situation can allow. It's all a matter of wrong place and wrong time and he feels that, should the two of them be taken from the equation and put in an equal playing field, they would get along just as well as they did now.

"You know, I've never been a very big tea drinker," he muses as she hands him a steaming mug from his seat on her rocking chair.

In response to his comment, her slender eyebrows lift and she smirks, lifting her own cup, "What a coincidence. Neither have I."

"Then why are we drinking it?"

"Niceties, I suppose," she shrugs, setting her mug down on a coffee table by her feet, "My mother always told me that polite hosts offer tea."

"Ah," he says simply, but secretly he chews on this new nugget of information about his acquaintance. It was getting to be a game between the two of them. Finnick will throw a line about his father's fishing boat. Johanna will tell him her grandmother's favorite season. Finnick will mention he hates the taste of caviar. Johanna will mention she hasn't met a single person who knows what caviar is, including herself.

They ignore the fact that they're both naked. They ignore the fact that, in ten minutes time, he will be fucking her neighbor. They ignore the fact that they hail from different spheres of life.

Instead they drink tea that they both don't like, because it's the polite thing to do.

* * *

 

On Annie's 5th night in the rotation, the lackeys all but dump him through the threshold. He's still unsure what to make of her intentions, though he'd outright asked her last time they met.

It's not that he doesn't think she told him the truth – if anything, he at least believes in the fact that  _she_ believes what she said was true. And in the moment, that was enough. But now he still chews on it, on what she means. Of course what was being "done to him" wasn't right. It doesn't take a genius to gather that much, but what he wanted to know what  _why_ her. Why does she see it as something that's not right, when everyone else in the Colony doesn't?

Despite his inner contemplations, they don't speak much, instead he lounges on her bed and drifts between consciousness while she cooks or cleans or sits quietly until it's time for him to rouse again.

Occasionally, he catches her watching him, and before she used to avert her gaze, bashful. But now she's comfortable enough to offer him a small smile, the likes of which he finds easy to return. Besides, he's guilty of watching her, too. In his efforts to try not to fall asleep, his eyes trail her as she pads around her home. If she notices it, she never comments. Occasionally, she smiles to herself though, and it's a warm spread that lights her face just right.

Sometimes she sings quietly while she works, and it's a sound that seems to fit in the house. It whispers through the cracks in the walls, seeps into the carpet under her feet. Its like her voice is healing her home.

He blinks, dizzy in the cocoon of it, once again wondering where his consciousness starts and the drugs end. Things always feel so fluttery when they give him the citrus drink, like a sparkling fog.

It's jarring, sometimes. The way beauty seeps in this place that's all but keeping him captive. All he can think about is earning the map and leaving, never looking back. Sometimes anger burns in his veins at everyone here, for keeping him captive, for using him. And sometimes, when the exhaustion hits and he can barely hold himself up, horrible thoughts that they're sucking him dry creep up and he can feel his heart pound like a battering ram against his chest.

But then he sees a delicate flower, or the wind whistles through the tree branches, or the sun hits the canopy above his head, or Annie smiles  _just so_  and all he's hit with is the majesty of this place; the mystery of it. Where  _is_  he? He doesn't know how to ask the question, or who to even direct the question to. In the beginning, he wasn't too concerned on the where or the why, but instead focused on finishing the job and getting the hell out.

But now he can't un-shake the whispers in his head that something was very, very  _off_  about this place. He figured it had something to do with a culture set against the patriarchy; that all the women here had banded together to establish a civilization free of men. It wouldn't be that impossible: he'd heard of places that used to practice it in the past, before the great wars shifted everything off-kilter. Granted, it was information he gleaned from his Capitol harvested secrets. But it  _would_  explain the free-willed characters, the strong grip of the Queen, the unexplained nudity. Now he wasn't so sure anymore if that was the case.

This place felt unshakably  _other_. Like he'd stepped out of Panem straight into a fairytale world, like the stories that collected dust on Mags's bookshelf.

They catch one another glancing at each other, and he can't tell who the perpetrator is this time around. Like clockwork, she offers him a small smile from behind the piles of dried lavender she had been bundling, before drifting her eyes back to cutting the lines of twine in her hands.

He can't shake the thought that she wouldn't lie to him so, naturally, he asks.

"This place…where am I, exactly?"

She pauses in her work and her gaze drifts back to him, a pucker of a frown pulling at her lips, "No one's told you yet."

It's not a question she asks, but a statement. His stomach pitches, and he shakes his head in response. He doesn't say more, just gives her the option to keep talking or let the conversation drop. He has questions he's not sure he can form the words to, a pitch of fear paralyzing him in place, though he knows not why he's afraid.

She sets the twine down on the table, and sits back, expression wary. Then she turns her head towards the hearth in the room, watches the fire she set earlier crackle through the kindling set out.

"Finnick…have you noticed that you are the only man here?"

_Yes._

"I figured it was some kind of statement," he sits up now, leaning his shoulder against the wall the head of her bed is tucked into. She looks to him again and her expression is confused, so he attempts to clarify, "Like…you've kicked all the men out to keep it a women-only community."

"Ah, I see what you mean," she shakes her head, "No, that is not the case here."

He doesn't respond, giving her time to elaborate on it. A line of concentration forms between her eyebrows, as she thinks. It's a few moments before she speaks again, and the words drop from her lips carefully, as she tastes the weight of each of them.

"How do I put this?" She squints, concentrating, before she continues, "Finnick, we are not of the same…kind."

He lets that sink in, and he lets out a breath, "Right…"

She frowns, her expression sad, "I don't know how to say it so that you'll believe me. It's something that, if you weren't born knowing it, then you'd be hard pressed to realize." She closes her eyes and sighs, before looking at him again, "I know we may appear the same, but we are different. We come from different worlds."

"Different…worlds," he echoes and she nods.

"There are pockets where our world meet, though they're difficult to spot if you're not looking." She explains, and he tries to follow what she's saying, but it feels like a puzzle that his muddled brain cant comprehend, "Only those who are aware that they're there, or those who are strong-willed in their desperation, have been able to gain access across both worlds. Somehow, you've stumbled through a doorway and ended up here."

Now he was completely lost.

"Okay…but you don't  _look_  different," he argues, "You all look like human women to me." If they really werefrom different worlds, wouldn't they look strange? Be colored blue, or have three eyes, or be ten feet taller? The logical side of himself is poking holes through her statements, writing her off as crazy.

But another side of him is buzzing at the probability of it. There was undeniably something off about this place. The vibrancy of it all, the strange characteristics, the unshakable fact that none of these women act like they've seen a man before…

"I'm not human."

"No?" He quirks an eyebrow, and then decides to throws her a bone, "If you're not human, what exactly  _are_  you?"

"I'm a nymph," she says sincerely, as if she were saying her hair was black and her eyes were green and she was five foot one.

He lets out a dry laugh at that, and she looks hurt, but he's too wrapped up in the ridiculousness of it to feel too bad.

He vaguely recalls what a nymph is, at least from what Mags had told him. She'd always been into fairytales and mythology, and would regal him with the prose of it when he'd join her for dinner or sit with her by the waves.

A spirit of the forest, a creature made from nature. Stories regard them as deities, goddesses who crafted the beauty in the world around them.

And he'd believed them to be just that: a story. Up until now, they didn't exist. Couldn't exist. They were as factual as the stories of the sirens the fishermen, among them his father, would tell one another after they got off the docks. They would congregate in his home, circled around the table as they passed a tumbler of ale and swore they'd been seduced by women with tails for legs. Younger Finnick would dance around the room, starry-eyed as he listened to men talk of beautiful mermaids serenading men by the boatful, until his mother would usher him out and put him to bed.

As he grew older, and began to help his father on the docks, he would listen with to their stories with a grain of salt and a snicker on his lips.

"A nymph." He says, and then clarifies further, "A nature spirit."

"It's what we regard our kind as, yes." She lifts her chin, and though the motion of it can read as defensive, he knows she's simply just trying to explain, "I do not know the connotations you associate the term with, but I know who I am and what my presence stands for. We take care of the Great Gardens and provide crops and flora to other communities in the Great Forest."

He separates himself from the context of it. They do seem to have a knack for gardening here. Flowers adorn every crevice of the place. There was also that unshakable difference about this place; it felt incredibly disconnected from Panem. From anywhere that he's ever been. Could it really be so hard to imagine he had walked through a portal to a new world?

"So, if I'm hearing this right, I've somehow found myself in a…magical land?"

"I wouldn't say magical, per se. This world has different mechanics than yours do, as you've probably been aware of." She pauses a moment, before shrugging, "But I suppose so, yes. Our worlds are separate from each other, and somehow you've managed to cross over the boundary to a place that's not your own."

"How do you know about all of this?" He asks, "And why had no one told me about this? Is my world as unaware of this as I am?"

"Our worlds have interacted longer than you, or even your ancestors, have been alive." She says, "My people know about this link simply because it impacts us directly as a community. It's a relationship that has been passed on by mother and her mother's mother, and her mother's mother."

"Whether or not your people are aware of us, I believe it all comes down to how you've interacted with them. And you obviously have, since you knew what your world's version of a nymph was, right?"

He thinks of his father's crew, of their mermaids.

Of Mags and her books and her stories of beings with different rules, lives, religions. If she were here, what would she think of the situation?

"Okay. I believe you." As he says it, he realizes that he's not lying to comfort her. Something shifts; he believes it. It makes sense. It's unshakable, how much sense it makes to him in this moment.

"You do?"

He nods, hoping his expression comes out sincere. It must have translated well, but she relaxes, and offers a relieved smile.

He has a million other questions to ask now that the door has been opened, but he doesn't get the chance to because the lackey's rapt on her door to announce their time is up.

"Thank you," is what he says instead, "for telling me."

"I don't think I was supposed to," she's sheepish now, and she worries her bottom lip at the admittance of it.

"Why did you?"

"This whole…situation feels wrong if we're not honest with each other." She looks away, back towards the fire, and he can't make out what her expression says.

They're quiet, until the second set of knocks forces him to push his weight off her bed, and she turns to watch him go. Her eyes are troubled, dealing with a weight he can't understand, but she still offers him the smallest of smiles and in that moment he can see it, the natural way about her. If anyone were a nymph, it'd probably be her.

"I'll see you around, Annie."

"Good night, Finnick."

* * *

 

The walk back to the tent after his last client is a stumbling affair. The conversation he had with Annie just a few short hours earlier bounce through his head, like the ball game he used to play when he was eight with the other neighborhood kids. The game was simple, bounce the ball twice, and pass it off the next person to catch. Keep score on and on until someone eventually fumbles and they have to start all over again. He's wondering when life started to sit permanently in the moment where you started to fumble the ball.

The sun has started to crest through the trees, bathing the sky into a yawn of purple color. Dawn and twilight were the only times he was allowed to see the rest of the Colony in any other light than complete darkness. And even through the smallest sliver of light, the place seemed to illuminate.

Colors were a dazzling thing here; so many flowers and fruits and greens that sang together in splendid harmony. Each plant seemed to stretch out, demand to be heard, but never overpower its neighbor. He's seen plants of different species that sit side by side, when it was nearly impossible to, simply because their biochemistry required separate climates to thrive in.

Flowers he'd only seen in District 12 set beside flowering berries that he'd only seen in District 4. A type of tree that's native to District 7 stretching its roots and fanning out its branches beside a type of shrub only observed in District 10.

Before, he'd simply passed this knowledge by, not even seeming to recognize it. But after Annie's reveal that this place was indeed very special, he notices all of it.

It's crushing him, the  _otherness_  of it all.

The lackey's who usher him through the town are quiet, as per usual. They don't speak with him, whether through their own volition or through tightlipped command of the Queen, he's unsure. But it's a welcome relief – the last thing he wants to do after his evenings of debauchery is try to uphold conversation.

They don't ogle him as much as they used to, which is another relief. They've grown used to the sight of him. Perhaps the weight of carrying him from home to home and knowing  _exactly_  what's going on inside them is enough to shake anyone off. At least, he'd like to think so.

The tent is warm inside. They don't follow him inside it anymore, instead opting to stand watch outside until another pair arrives to relieve them of their duties. It's always a pair he recognizes. He's slept with everyone here. Well, not everyone…Annie, Johanna, the Queen herself. The list is small, but it's a tiny comfort nonetheless.

As per usual, someone has come in to light the candles in the tent in his absence, and he sets to circling the room and snuffing them all out. The tent was his small reprieve; his safe space in this godforsaken place, and he strived to keep all the mechanics in it set to  _his_ liking and no one else's.

When they're all out and it smells properly like smoke, he sets to the bed, wrapping one of the sheets around him like a cape. It's a small cover, but it means a lot, to finally have  _something_ disconnecting his body to the world. He sits on the plush mattress, but doesn't lay down, his brain too wired to sleep. The foggy claws of the citrus drink had worn away an hour ago, and he feels clearheaded again. Though he struggles with a growing exhaustion that roots itself deep in his chest, he can finally feel his injuries heal. Though there's still a dull ache in his ribs, it still feels marginally better to move his body, which leads him to believe that they were never broken but instead just bruised. It's comforting ache; it keeps him sharp.

With this new information comes a personal challenge. He has things to consider. For starters, he has to wonder if staying here is even an option for him anymore. If he's somewhere other – what did she call it? Another world? – then what's even guaranteeing that these people have the information they claim they had. Did they even have a map to District 13? Were they playing him for a fool? Was he being hustled by  _naked aliens?_

With those thoughts, it became clear that the next option was to plan his escape. But that opens up a whole other can of worms in itself.

Say he did manage to get out of the Colony. Where would he go from there? He doesn't know the way out. Up until a few hours ago, he wasn't even aware that there were pockets connecting his world to…where ever this place was. Was he so sure he could find the way back?

Did he even  _want_ to go back?

He was escaping Panem, on route for a District that he wasn't even too sure was still alive. Or, for that matter, if it was a better alternative. So what if should he escape the Colony, he makes his new start  _here_ , in this world? That was definitely an option.

And  _oh_  was the prospect of it tantalizing enough.

A world free of Snow; a world free of District  _anything_. A world where no one knew him, knew what he's done, and would never ask him to give anything of his up ever again.

He's floating through the daydream of it, being strung along the possibilities when a shuffle outside the tent catches him off guard. A gentled whisper; a respectful greeting, "Hello, Queen."

Finnick drops into the bed, immediately feigning sleep. It's not often the Queen stops by, but she still does occasionally. To talk. To observe. To threaten. With his head cottoned at the thought of escape, he can't bare to look at or even speak to the Queen. So he evens his breathing, closes his eyes, and relaxes his body.

She enters the tent with a flourish, pushing the flaps aside with a force that mimics a gust of wind. The room smells of herbs, a scent she carries on her person. Whether or not it's intentional sits in the mystery of her.

Her shadow looms over his form on the bed, and he nearly tenses, but instead wills himself to relax. Focus on his breaths. Play the part. She doesn't try to wake him, instead circles the room. Strikes a match, relights the candles he put out.

Another shuffle outside the tent catches both of their attention, as another person comes through the entrance.

"Queen?" it's a soft, new voice; possibly the new lackey's come to switch out the rotation.

"Yes?" she doesn't try to keep her voice down, "Come in."

There's a shuffle of feet on dirt as the mystery person enters, "My apologies for interrupting. We've received word of…a situation that needs your attention, my Queen."

"What situation?"

The girl's response is several octaves quieter, and Finnick can't quite make out her words.

"Around the border?" The Queen responds in the same volume she had been using. Her voice is clipped, trying to disguise her surprise, "How many?"

"Three for now, my Queen," the girl is a little louder now, now convinced there's no need to keep the conversation hushed from his prying ears, "but we are unsure how long they've been watching, or if this the first they've shown up."

"Where are they now?"

"They retreated before I arrived here to inform you. They're possibly on their way back to the Council."

"How troubling," the Queen sounds disgruntled but has managed to hide her worry quite well. "Who else knows?"

"Just those of us who were on watch tonight and you," the girl responds.

"Please work to keep it that way. The last thing we need is to start a panic."

"Of course, my Queen."

That must be the girl's cue for dismissal, because there's a ruffling as she slips through the tent flaps. The Queen remains though; he can feel her shadowing form hover above him, probably watching him as he pretends to sleep. He forces himself to relax, steadying his breaths. It feels like an eternity, until she breaks the silence.

"How troubling," she sighs, "we'll definitely need to be moving things along."

And then, just as she appeared, she ghosts out of the tent. Finnick remains in his fake-sleep until he's absolutely certain she's gone, and then moves to sit up in the bed, his mind overcast.

He can't shake the thought that his already borrowed time was quickly running dry.


	7. Chapter 7

She didn't tell Johanna about her conversation with Finnick.

She almost told her. Numerous times, actually.

Once, while she was making her morning tea. And then again, on the walk to the plot of land they were renovating into a garden for heartier crops. And then a third time, when they took a lunch-break to munch on apples underneath the shade of a large beech tree.

It bubbled up her throat during the moments of quiet, threatening to spill over when Johanna's attention was elsewhere and Anneyce had no choice but watch her, unaware of the secret burning a hole in her chest.

_Johanna, I may have done something I shouldn't have last night._

But each time, it stuck to the back of her throat, and she swallowed it down. It felt like it got heavier every time she held it to herself, sinking like a rock in her stomach.

She can't tell her, because it feels like a dangerous secret, one that she doesn't want to tangle Johanna up into.

Ever since she told Finnick the truth, she's felt like she's overturned a page that she can't take back. There were no specific written rules to advise against telling the human men about the divide between worlds, but she's never heard of such a thing being done to really condone her actions. She can't shake the fact that she's crossed a line. A potentially dangerous one, at that.

But that doesn't mean that she regrets it. Quite the opposite, really. Whatever it was, it felt right to do. She finds she's always toeing that line with Finnick – taking a leap and doing something that seems wrong, but right.

But that didn't mean she needed to drag Johanna into the middle of it.

It's a warm day in the Colony, with a sticky sweet scent in the air. The more time the human has been spent in the Colony, the thicker his life seeps into the roots of the Great Gardens. Flowers are budding with vibrancy, the soil feels heartier, and the nymphs go about their days with more energy. It's a renewing feeling – like taking a deep, clear breath after having held it for far too long. Anneyce feels the impact of it in her limbs; she feels  _stronger,_ more vital and less fatigued.

Though it's a healing experience, she can't shake the nausea she gets at the thought of it. Her stronger moments are the result of the Great Gardens literally  _taking_  from Finnick. It doesn't sit well, the knowledge that while she regains her strength, he's getting sapped of it.

The sun is hot on her back, and she can feel the grit on her fingertips as she gently opens holes into the plots of turned soil, dropping in small carrot seeds from the pouch slung around her hip and moving to the next spot. Today they work in an assembly line, as the nymph girl behind her takes her place to pack the soil into place and add water. Johanna is a few slots ahead, helping the nymph next to her in the line as they turn the soil over for those behind them.

Anneyce is thankful for the spaces between her and Johanna, because even though she's reserved the right to keep the secret, it still is heavy on her shoulders. Every once and a while, Johanna will look behind her at Anneyce, making a face when the nymph who she's paired with back is turned. She can already hear the complaints Johanna will have in store when the shift is over. Johanna wasn't one to enjoy working as a pair – the girl was too critical and set in her ways to bend for any sort of teamwork.

Anneyce focuses on the dirt beneath her, pretending to be too busy to send her own set of facial cues to Johanna. She feels guilty about it, but if that's what it takes to keep her secret, then so be it.

"You missed another plot, Anneyce," the girl behind her comments, and Anneyce turns to see an empty spot. It was her fifth skipped hole this afternoon, and the embarrassment sits hot on her cheeks.

"Oh, my apologies," she reaches into the sack on her hip, plucking a small seed free and dropping it in, "I don't know where my head is today."

"It's alright," the girl smiles, her face kind. She's moderately short, but her pale skin and green eyes match her own, telling Anneyce they're cut from the same father, "Things have been so distracting lately, with the human man in the Colony."

"Yes, that's for sure," Anneyce hums softly in agreement, looking away to hide her expression from the girl. Distracting for sure, but in different degrees. Anneyce wanted to steer the conversation as far away from the topic of Finnick.

"Do you meet with him again tonight?" The girl asks casually, packing the dirt over the hole that Anneyce filled.

"No," Anneyce responds, her tone unintentionally sharp. She winces, hoping not to offend. It was one thing discussing her discomfort at sharing herself with Finnick to Johanna, and it was a whole  _other_ talking about it to a stranger just trying to keep polite conversation.

"Oh, so you're on the same rotation as me!" The girl says cheerily, oblivious to the mace in Anneyce's voice.

"Mmm," she hums, digging her fingers into the dirt. It's cool under her fingertips, and it feels good in contrast to the warm sun on her shoulders.

The girl's voice drops a little lower, bashful, "What do you think of his performance?"

Anneyce barely holds back her shock as she flits her gaze to the nymph. Before she can even think to comprehend a response, however, a sudden commotion in the tree line catches the nymphs' attention.

An even thumping and the snapping of twigs halts all the idle conversation of the nymphs in the vegetable garden, and everyone stays in various degrees of bending over, their attention engrossed towards the trees.

Anneyce's first thought is it must be a bear or a big cat. They're usually pretty docile, tending to circle the perimeter of the Colony, especially when the nymphs are at work in the vegetable gardens. But occasionally there will be an aggressor. Nymphs have been attacked before by animals gone feral, whether it was from disease or near starvation.

Her second thought is that the being is too large and too careless to be an animal. Whatever was coming through the trees was cocky. It knew that, no matter how much noise it made to announce it's arrival, it was going to be treated with respect.

Their bodies peak through the trees like rolling boulders. The Guards of the Great Forest trample through the underbrush with ease, their massive forms overtaking the border in a matter of seconds.

They stand hulking at twelve feet tall, bodies of pure stone with quarterstaffs that rival the thickness of the trunks of birch trees. Anneyce had never been as close as this to them. From afar they've always been incredibly intimidating.

Up close, they're terrifying.

The Guards of the Great Forest were implemented by the Council as watchdogs for the trees. They act as a border patrol for this world and the human world, to keep the sanctity of the Great Forest in tact and out of the claws of human destruction.

As far as Anneyce had been told, humans were lucrative creatures. They poisoned oceans for black oil, covered their skies with thick smog, and chopped trees until entire fields were plateaued where forests once stood. When they came stumbling into our world, the next course of action was to make sure they wouldn't stumble back to get reinforcements.

No one's quite sure what is done with the humans that they find; if they're simply taken back to their world…or if something worse befalls them. Nonetheless, they're the reason why the Colony has not had contact with a human man for centuries. Except now, when by some stroke of luck, the Queen was able to slip one past their defenses; a human man, in the middle of the Great Forest, alive and aware.

Without giving the nymphs working in the garden a second glance, the Guards march beyond them, towards to the center of town. Their presence stirs a commotion, as nymphs leave their homes to watch them march towards the Queen's home. Her royal guards are already holding stance outside her door, their chests puffed and their eyes set in defiance. The sight of it confirms the horrifying thought that has been brewing in Anneyce's mind since they first burst through the trees.

They're here for Finnick.

Her satchel of carrot seeds spills to the ground as she sprints in the direction of the tent.︎

* * *

 

Finnick is startled awake by small hands cupping his face. Eyes barely adjusted to the dark, he makes out the silhouette of a slender face. He's about to speak out, before the hand on his left cheek gently stifles the words by covering his mouth.

" _Shhh_ ,  _Finnick,"_ a familiar voice whispers to him, and he relaxes a little at the sound, "You mustn't speak, alright?"

Nodding under Annie's warm palm, she releases her hand from his mouth. He sits up slowly, his eyes adjusting the absence of light, and watches her darting eyes circle the tent.

"We need to move swiftly. The Guards of The Great Forest are here," her gaze falls on his face, "They are looking for you."

"The Who and the What?" He mumbles, the remnants of sleep fogging his mind.

"They watch the forest for any intruders," she shuffles away, all but pulling him to his feet. The slow fading mist of sleep sits on his equilibrium, making him sway as he rises, "I don't know how, but they found out you're here. We need to go, get you out of here before you're turned over to them." Her eyes dart to the tent flap, "I don't know how long The Queen can hold them off."

At that last bit, the pieces are starting to morph together. All he understands is someone – or something – is coming for him.

If there's one thing he's good at, it's escaping.

_Yeah right, dumbass. Last time you escaped from somewhere you fell out of a tree, remember?_

He shakes that particular thought away, instead gesturing for Annie to lead the way.

"Follow me," her small palm envelopes his own, and she tugs him towards the back of the tent. With a quick hesitance, she rips the vines from the walls, hooking a hand under the flap of the tent. He helps her to hitch up the surprisingly heavy canvas, proving a gap wide enough for the two of them to slip through.

"It really couldn't have been that easy," he muses, half in awe.

"It shouldn't be," she smiles sheepishly, "Normally, the Queen's royal guards are circling the whole tent, but with the Guards of The Great Forest here, they're all swarmed around to protect The Queen. It's how I got in the tent in the first place."

Vines and grass greet their feet as she pulls him around the back of the tent, cutting through the thick forest that lines the back sides of the shacks he's been forced into. As they duck between the trees, he looks over to catch the hustle and bustle in the center of town. It is the first time he's seeing the center of town in broad daylight, having only been let out of the tent in the middle of the night. He can't see too much, considering the mass of bodies surrounding the town square.

Sure as Annie has said, the nymphs crowd their lithe Queen, forming a wall against what he assumes to be the Guards of The Great Forest. The sight of them sends a jolt through Finnick. It's the first thing that really cemented home the fact that he's somewhere different - in a different world. They didn't look  _human._

Large, hulking beasts, seemingly made of stone, and towering over the nymphs by three feet, perfectly capable of squashing all those before them into dust. In their large boulder hands, they clench long staffs, and though they hold them upright Finnick surmises it wont be long before they turn them on the crowd. They're terrifying, and no doubt powerful, and he blanches at the sight of them.

Finnick is pitched to a stop behind one of the homes nestled beside the tree line, Annie pinning her body flat against the sidewall to watch the confrontation unraveling between her kind. It's all going down only five or six feet away; in order to get away undetected they'll need to wait for an impromptu moment.

Finnick scowls at the look on the Queen's face, so sure and nonchalant in the way her subjects willingly create a wall between her wicked hide and the massive rock creatures. It's a look he's seen on Snow. The surity that you'll survive, if only due to the sacrifices made by those around you. It's a sickening kind of hierarchy.

"We know the human is here, Alma," one of the creatures boom, its gravely voice reverberating in Finnick's ears like an earthquake. "It's time for you to surrender him to the hands of the Council where he belongs."

"He has broken the boundary and seen too much." Another pitches forward, and the nymphs respond by standing taller, squeezing the barricade tighter. Finnick doesn't miss Anneyce's hitch of breath beside him, watching the exchange with wild eyes. "It is now up to the Council to decide what to do with him."

"He is not yours to claim," the Queen sneers, "We found him on  _our side_  of The Great Forest."

"It is your duty as a member of The Great Forest to surrender him."

"I surrender him over and  _then what?_  The Council can once again ignore the cries of my people, while they sentence him to his death anyway?" The Queen's tongue is vicious, bloodthirsty, even. "It's  _unjust!_ "

Finnick feels a hand grip his arm, and he looks over to Annie, her eyes wide as she watches. She doesn't realize she's gripping onto him, using him for support.

"You know the rules."

"What I  _know_  is that you taking him away will be a death sentence for the Colony!" She snaps, stepping forward despite the protest in the nymph barricade, "Does the Council not care for their subjects anymore? Are they so vicious in their thirst for power that they will let my people  _die_  to prove a point?"

Nymphs cry out; war cries for their Queen. Finnick looks down at Annie, currently gripping his arm with the intensity of a crab claw, her expression distressed as she watches her community in their rallying.

"Annie," Finnick whispers, pulling her focus back to him, "we need to go."

Annie looks over at him, her green eyes large and shaken. She blinks a moment, and then a new emotion sets on her face.

"Right," her voice is small, and this time she faces the confrontation to search for a window to sneak through. "Our best bet is due north, considering no one will be there to guard the exit of the Great Garden."

"Which is…?"

"Straight ahead, just beyond that cottage there," she points in the direction, the most straightforward route cutting right through the confrontation. "We need to circle around them as quietly as possible. But we should gather supplies first…"

She twists, catching sight of her home, just beyond the shack they're hidden behind. Together, they sprint for the tiny home, Annie taking him in through a back door nestled beyond a small garden. Once safely inside, she runs to her bed, dropping to her knees to reach for an item tucked away underneath. Finnick turns to the windows that face the square, and makes work at tugging the thick curtains closed before turning to see Annie pull a moderately sized rucksack out from under the bed.

"How can I help?" He asks as she skitters to the kitchen, reaching into her cupboards for food supplies. Before she can answer, a thundering knock freezes them in place, and they only have time stare at one another as the front door skirts open.

Johanna slips in, her brown eyes wide. Her eyes skirt over the both of them, Finnick stock still in her kitchen, as Annie is arms deep in her cupboards.

"Your best bet is to take the side path by the brook," is all Johanna says as she makes work to assist in raiding the kitchen. "Though they were will arguing with the Guards when I slipped away, they'll discover him missing soon enough, so you two need to hurry."

"You're not coming with us?" Annie pauses in her scavenging to throw a frantic gaze at her friend.

Johanna doesn't look her in the face as she answers, instead opting to throw supplies into the rucksack, "You'll barely be able to slip him past the boundary by yourself undetected by the Council. Two nymphs would only make matters worse." The bag is half full now, and she pulls the drawstring closed, "Plus, from the looks of it, you only have enough supplies to last for two. We don't have time to go to my house and grab more."

Finnick skirts towards the curtained windows, drawing them back enough to watch the crowd continue to argue. "They're still gathered in the square," he informs, before turning to the two nymphs in the kitchen, "I don't think they noticed I slipped away yet."

Johanna slings the rucksack across Annie's shoulders, pulling her small hands into her own.

"You're going to have to do this without me." Johanna is blunt and her expression fierce, "I can't hold your hand out of it this time."

Annie's eyes begin to water, but she bites her bottom lip and nods. They embrace for a long few moments before Johanna slips towards the door, turning the handle, but not before looking back towards her friend. "I'll try to distract them as best I can. Stay safe and return home, Anneyce, or I will be so angry with you."

Annie smiles sadly, "I will, Johanna."

Johanna holds her gaze, flickers her eyes towards Finnick, before circling back to Annie. With a solemn nod, she's out the door. Annie watches the door close with shaking hands, her expression swimming with emotion. Finnick reaches to take the rucksack off her shoulders, ripping her from the reverie.

"We should go," he says softly, touching the back of her arm. She doesn't answer verbally, only nods.

They slip out of the back door, before rounding the side of the shack. Annie peers around the wall, towards the direction of the crowd.

"We're going to need to run straight across," she says, "there's a path directly beyond those set of houses that leads to a brook." She points to a cluster of shacks directly across the clearing. It's roughly about the length of a football field they'll need to cross, out in the open and exposed to the crowd on the right of them.

"Can't we just circle around the back of the houses?"

She shakes her head, "Not enough time, the Colony is too big and stretches too far to make it all the way around."

"Well how do you suppose we get through?" Finnick asks, frantic.

As if to answer, a wild, bloodcurdling scream streaks out from the crowd. On the far end of the fighting nymphs is Johanna, flopped in the grass and thrashing about like a beached fish. The entire crowd - giant rock men, Queen and all - turn to watch in alarm.

"Johanna!" Annie gasps in horror, and Finnick grabs her hand.

"She's distracting them!" He exclaims, shoving her out from behind the wall towards the other side of the cul-de-sac,  _"Go!"_

They sprint as fast as they can towards the tree line on the opposite side of the clearing, the rucksack banging against Annie's side violently as they run. Finnick's eyes never leave the sight of the crowds back, allowing Annie to guide him. Johanna's screaming grows louder as a few nymphs try to stand her up, and she thrashes her limbs wildly in the air, almost knocking them out. He turns back around to check their progress, the line of trees no further than 10 yards away, and he forces his legs to pump faster.

They sprint behind the closest shack and tumble into the trees, his legs screaming. His abdomen burns with the excursion and each breath he takes sends shooting pain in his ribs, but they don't stop until Johanna's screams turn faint and they smash through the brook, their bare legs splashing into cool water.

They take a moment to breathe. Finnick falls to his hands and knees, the water from the brook breezing by and soothing his screaming body. A shadow towers over him, blocking out he sun. He stiffens and tilts his head to the side. Annie stands over him as she takes quick sharp inhales, her face cocked in the direction where they had just come from with terrified eyes.

" _Johanna?"_  She wheezes out, her voice suddenly coming out a mile a minute, "did you see her? I couldn't – I-I was too busy running and…" the words trail off.

He slowly pushes himself up despite the protest of pain in his side, the brook water dripping down over him and giving him goose bumps.

"She's fine," he assures, but the look in her eyes says she isn't convinced. He reaches over, taking her shoulders in both his hands and leveling his gaze, "Annie."

Annie pulls her eyes from the direction of the trees to look at him, her eyebrows mashed together in distress, "She was screaming to helping us get away. That's all." He would definitely know if she were screaming in pain. Some sounds are just so distinct it's hard to forget what they sound like.

Finnick watches her shoulders visibly relax as she decides to trust him. He's found Annie to be malleable like that, full of trust and hope for others. It's a dangerous trait.

"Okay," he wraps his arms around his abdomen, trying to squelch the monster of pain, "what now?"

She tucks her bottom lip under her teeth, surveying their surroundings a moment, adjusting the rucksack over her shoulder with a hefty shift. "We need to put distance between us and them. I'm not sure how much time we have until they figure out you're gone."

She starts off, navigating the brush with ease in direction that only a native would have.

"But where are we  _going_?" He flutters to catch up, catching the resign in her face. It's a new kind of expression for her – sucking her usual lightness out to leave room for a serious person to take over.

She pauses, regarding his question, this time more carefully.

"It's in our best interest to put distance, so I guess that's where we should start. From there we can…" she pauses to think, and her shoulders deflate, "I don't know, Finnick, I'm sorry. I wish I had a better plan for this, but it all happened too fast."

He nods, rocking on his heels a moment. Then he asks, carefully, "Do you really want to come with me? It's not too late to go back, you know. Wash your hands of the trouble."

She shakes her head, as if the thought never even occurred to her. At this point, he's convinced that it probably didn't.

"I couldn't…just leave you behind, not when you don't know where you are." She shakes her head again. "No. Where ever you're going, I'm coming with you, at least to make sure you get there okay."

A loud crash, somewhere in the wood beyond them, makes the both of them flinch. Finnick bends his knees, eyes twitching around. They wait, but nothing appears.

"We better go, before it starts to get dark," she insists quietly, and this time he follows her lead, crunching them through the underbrush.

He takes a moment behind her to look back from where they came, trying to see…he doesn't know. They're too far-gone to make out any remains of the Colony.

He turns again, to watch her back as she walks ahead. She's sure in her movements as she navigates the thick forest, not a hint of regret seeping through her stance, and it hits him at once. Finnick's not stupid, he knows exactly what this means.

He's gained an ally. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Hope your week has been good.
> 
> After a lot of considering, I think I'm going to start updating this fic on a biweekly basis until further notice, if only to give myself enough breathing room between chapters to edit/perfect them. I'm in the midst of the semester, so I want to make sure I have enough time to really get the chapters up to snuff the way I want them. So I'll see y'all again February 20th ~
> 
> That's all! Happy reading.

And so they continue on, with the quiet crunching of their bare feet hitting the Great Forest floor being the only sound bouncing off the bark of the trees. Their destination was unknown, Annie only insisting that they keep walking to put more distance and keep out of the radar of the Guards of The Great Forest.

"Don't you think we've shaken them off by now?" He asked after a few hours of walking, trying to ignore the pulsing ache shifting through his ribs.

She would shake her head, "Things work a little bit differently here. We're all attuned to the Great Forest, so it'll be a little bit harder to completely get off of their trail." She shrugs, now sheepish, "Plus...I'm probably being a little over cautious at this point."

He figured over cautious was better in their circumstance, and so they would walk.

And walk.

_And walk._

And they would stop when the sun would begin to cup itself on the tops of the tallest pine trees, turning the sky a smattering of gold and red. They'd make camp on the forest floor, Annie not seeming to mind sleeping on a bed of pine needles. They would eat parcels of the food Johanna and Annie had stuffed in the rucksack – breads and fruits and vegetables. Then, as soon as the birds began their morning song, they'd rise to start a new day of walking. While they walk, Annie would pause to pick berries and find nuts to eat, creating a mish-mash of homemade trail mix.

Finnick tried to not make comparisons to his time in the Hunger Games, of the endless walking, scavenging, and have no choice but to sleep on the forest floor...

Occasionally, a small critter would cross their path. Finnick would watch as she reached out to the animal by dropping to her knees and splaying a hand, as if she were offering food. He'd think it ridiculous, because they didn't have any food to give, and animals were skittish.

That is, until each animal she did this to willingly approached, all but jumping in her arms. When that happened, she would turn to smile at him, as if proving a point. Except he knew that wasn't what she was doing. Annie was too nice to gloat in front of him.

And then he'd feel like a hot sack of shit, as he realizes she was just trying to make the journey a little bit less awful.

"Why do they do that?" He had asked, after a small hare departed from the envelope of her arms, back into the bush it had came, "Just hop right up? Aren't they afraid?"

"They have no reason to be," she tilts her eyebrows up, a signature look of confusion for her. Finnick marvels on the fact that they've been together long enough for him to notice these small things about her. "We are two of the same beings, living under the Great Forest. We're connected. They know I will not harm them, and I know they will not harm me."

"Okay, but how do they  _know?_ " Finnick challenges.

She hums, eyes rolling up to the sky as she thinks, "They just do. It's not something they're told. It's an instinct."

"Most rabbits I know have the instinct to run in the other direction of a person, not jump into their arms," he argues, hiking an eyebrow up.

"It's like I told you yesterday," she responds, "Things work differently here. The world is more connected."

Finnick chews on what she says a moment, "Connected...you keep saying that. Connected  _how?"_

"Connected like...Oh, how do I put this?" She chews her lip, thinking again. She waves her hand vaguely, trying to drum up the right words. " Like...there's a presence between all of us." His expression must read as mystified, because she charges on to explain deeper, "There's a reason why the Guards of The Great Forest are so particular about keeping...foreign species out."

She glances at him cautiously when she says the word "foreign" as if expecting him to cringe or wince. When he doesn't, she keeps going, "The Great Forest is not just trees or flowers. It's a living, singular being. It's the origin for everything, so we're all in tuned to it. It gives us assurance, in a way."

"You speak about it like it talks in your ear."

She shrugs now, "It does, occasionally."

He blanches,  _"What?"_

"It's rare, but if you're quiet enough, you can hear it whisper to you. Mostly, though, it just feels like an extension of yourself." Annie puckers her lips thoughtfully, "Like a sixth sense, I suppose."

"So...the forest is like this ghost person, stalking your every move? This big eye in the sky, always in your head?"

"In a way, if you want to see it like that," she smiles patiently, "The Great Forest is more than just trees. It holds all life. It holds the spirits of those long passed. I suppose, in all actuality, they're the presence you feel." Her voice ends softly, almost in a revere at the last bit, and he wonders what is going in her head at that moment.

Finnick shakes his head at the thought of  _dead people_  constantly whispering in his ear, starting to trail ahead to their unknown destination. It's kind of horrifying, even if she doesn't seem too affected by it. With that creepy new bit of information, the trees seem to loom over them a lot more dominating than before. They feel more sentient now, and he's trying to decide whether or not that's a comforting thought.

In the midst of his thoughts, he trips and stumbles on a vine. Annie gasps, reaching to steady him but something catches her foot as well, and this time she gasps not in surprise, but in fear. He catches her before she falls, and she struggles to pull her foot free from a vine that seemed to almost have reached out and grabbed her.

Trying to aid her foot out of the vines grasp, he feels her go completely rigid in his arms, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

"Annie? Hey?" He shakes her a little, trying to pull her free from the vines,  _"Annie?"_

She sucks in a breath and suddenly begins to struggle again, this time successfully un-lodging her foot from the plant. In one breath she looks up at him, her eyes coated in fear, before shouting,  _"Run!"_

"What?"

"Now!" She grabs his arm, pulling him as she starts to flee.  _"Go!"_

They crash through the forest, Finnick fueled on confusion as he watches her panicked strides. Something tangles his ankle, pulling him down and he lands with a hard groan. She stops and turns, reaching to help him up, before her silhouette fates with a sudden fog that blankets his vision.

Voices whisper harsh words in his ear, coating his senses and poking around in his mind.

_**You killed Mags.** _

What?

_**Why'd you leave her? She was too old to die that way.** _

No...

_**Because she is dead, you know. There is no way she survived** _ _._

No!

_**All you've done to escape it, and it's lead you nowhere...you deserve this.** _

No, _stop!_

_**You killed many and now she is dead because of you. Your family is dead because of you.** _

_Not true, not true, I..._

_**There is no saving grace, you are destined to be trapped, forever to please everyone but yourself.** _

_Please..._

_**Snow will find you. He will kill you. Or maybe not. He knows just as well as you do that keeping you alive is the best punishment.** _

_Please, I..._

_**Finnick...oh, Finnick...** _

_"FINNICK!"_ Annie's voice tears through the lining of the fog, ripping him from his thoughts. He gasps for breath, like a fish out of water, and watches as she rips the vine from its grasp on his leg. "We need to go! Can you stand?"

"I can...I can stand...I..." he pushes himself up against her as she works to try to lift his deadweight, and wobbles a little before straightening. He feels the earth try to wrap around him again and peels out into another sprint, Annie not far on his heels.

"We should be safe in another couple yards! The field shouldn't be that large!" She shouts as they rocket past trees, dodging spindly vines that seem to reach out at them.

Every once in a while the vines slip up their legs and rip into their minds, whispering horrible thoughts into their ears.

_**Mistake after mistake. You can't run from them...** _

_**Mags is dead because of you...** _

_**Capitol whore. Shows what kind of man you are. No backbone...** _

When they go down, it makes standing back up difficult. The fear the voices will drown him terrifies him enough to force himself to continue. He's terrified each time he'll succumb to the fog, get trapped in the nightmare of it all, until Annie helps him back up and they stumble on to the next circle of it.

Eventually they hit a lining of trees and the vines become scarce, until they aren't a threat any longer. By that point Finnick collapses to the ground, the emotional and physical exhaustion pushing him over. Pain shoots through his limbs, left over from his fall and yelling at him for exerting more than he could take. He can hear Annie weeping in the grass beside him, her body pressed into the ground as she quivers against the toxic in her body. He wants to reach out, questions and statements stuck to his tongue, but his limbs feel like weights and his eyes close without his permission. For a second he starts, afraid the voices will come back, but it's only silence.

Eventually he draws enough strength to open his eyes and push his sore body up from the grass. His tongue is dry and his head is pounding, but he doesn't feel as mentally drained. The voices leave a wispy fog in his head, but he pounds them back, treating them no differently than the intrusive thoughts he's been getting since he won the games.

He finds Annie rolled on her side, knees tucked to her chest to create a ball with her body, but no longer shaking or crying. Her shoulders lift softly with her breathing, and he reaches out to her, touching her shoulder. She unfolds, her blood shot eyes looking to him, before rolling herself completely into him, her crying beginning anew. She must not be used to the emotional turmoil; not like him. And why should she? She's never had to fight the things he's fought; never had her mind – her greatest fears - used against her.

He lets her cry into his shoulder, not saying anything, because he's not too sure what to say. He's confused on what just happened, and not good with healing others sadness. He can barely manage his own at times.

When her tears stop and she reigns herself in, Annie pushes herself from him to sit up.

"Are you alright?" He asks, and she nods, not looking at him. "What happened back there? What was that?"

"A trap," she responds hoarsely, wiping at her tear tracks with the heel of her hand.

"A trap?"

She hugs her arms around her waist tightly, pulling her legs to her chest as she stares at nothing before her, "They are vines that were planted by the Guards of The Great Forest by order of the Council." Her voice is a whisper as he watches her try to shake off whatever horror is bouncing around in her head, "They were meant to ward off humans coming into the Great Forest by showcasing whatever inner turmoil they're currently facing, and enhancing it to near painfulness. The point is to incapacitate them enough for the Great Guardians to find and capture them."

"They sound like mutts." Finnick says, and winces at the fact that he let that slip. For a second, she's able to pull herself out of her thoughts to regard him curiously.

"Mutts?" Annie asks.

"Muttations," He clarifies, and then sighs, "It's something that those in charge where I'm from created. They use these genetically modified animals as a weapon against the people."

"Oh. Well, I suppose they do." She frowns, "However, these vines grow naturally in the Great Forest, and the spots where they grow are well-know enough to avoid. But recently the Council had decided to use them to their advantage. I suppose they've started planting them in random spots around the Great Forest. I hadn't meant to steer us in their path." Her voice is small at the last part. "I apologize, Finnick."

* * *

 

Later that night, they find camp in a small clearing. Both exhausted from the day's horrific outcome, it was almost a silent affair as they mutually agreed to set up camp earlier than usual. Anneyce took the time to escape for a while, using the excuse that she would like to scavenge for more food while there was still daylight out. He hadn't argued much, just asked her not to wander too far away. Something in her stomach stirred at the gesture, but she didn't give it time to ponder on, since there were other matters at play on her mind.

She took to a small path to the east of the clearing, following the signs that usually lead to finding wild berries. After stumbling across a raspberry bush, Anneyce gets to work picking the sweet fruit from the trees, occasionally eating the ones she accidently crushes, the red juice spilling down her fingers.

Though the task is robotic and leaves her hands steady, she cannot help her still racing mind. As if the vines were still wrapped around her ankles, the same voices still bang around her head, encompassing her in a violent barrage of what she knows her own deep-seeded thoughts.

_**Traitor!** _

_**How dare you turn back away from your own kind?** _

_**What would your mother say?** _

_**Silly, foolish girl!** _

_**Risking the Colony to save a human boy who couldn't care less abut you!** _

_**They're dying! You've killed them!** _

It was making this whole thing a whole lot more confusing. Up until now, her only real objective was to get Finnick away from the grasp of the Council, where she knows he'll be sentenced to die. But the voices she'd been trying to beat down still brought forward the lingering elephant in the room: that if she returns him home, everyone in the Colony will die. Including the Great Gardens. Including her. But if she brings him back, he will perish for her own sake, and she cannot stomach that alternative.

With a full heart, Anneyce realizes she would rather die in order for him to live.

And she definitely would. Had the rest of the Colony not been thrown into the equation - if it was only her life on the line - she would continue with him through the Great Forest unperturbed. But this was more than just her, and unfortunately that meant it was more than just him, too.

She needs to be honest with Finnick.

She returns to the campsite when the trees begin to darken, the sun almost slipping quietly through the ground. Finnick has made a bed of needles and even sparked a fire in her absence. She feels a crushing guilt as she realizes she hadn't returned with enough berries to justify how long she'd been gone. However, if he notices, he doesn't comment. He must understand her need to sort her thoughts, having fought his own demons today, too.

He smiles at her return, and she sets the sack of berries aside, her heart hanging at what she needs to do. They're quiet as they sit by the fire, and she watches his jaw clench and unclench, obviously annoyed with something she cannot see. It sets her on edge. He pushes forward, using a thick branch he'd found to poke at the logs in the fire, and she uses the moment to bring up her qualms.

"Finnick," she begins, and her throat chokes up before she can finish what she was trying to say. He looks over his shoulder to look at her. She looks away, "I think...we need to talk about what we're doing."

At her tone, he pauses in his actions. Finnick regards her for a moment, before returning to his seat beside her, "Alright," he says cautiously, "what's on your mind?"

She looks away, because the intensity in his green eyes is making it harder to concentrate, "You leaving means my people will die."

He doesn't say anything, and her heart begins to pound in her chest. She looks up at him, but he's not looking at her anymore, just staring into the fire. She waits. And waits some more. And then, he asks, "What do you mean by that?"

"There was a time, centuries ago, that the Colony was dying," she answers, softly. She kneads her fingers anxiously, and watches the fire spark for a few moments while he sinks that part of the story in. "Remember how I told you the Great Forest was connected to every living being?" He nods, and she continues, "Well, the nymphs are even more deeply connected to the Great Gardens. And for reasons not known to us, the Gardens were dying, and so we were dying, too."

"One day, during that period of decay, a human man stumbled upon the Colony. At first, the nymphs thought nothing of it, intrigued and stupefied at a creature who looked so much like them, but still in no way at all."

"The human, though perplexed at the Colony, didn't seem too concerned with the predicament he found himself in. In time, he brought the nymphs something never before received in the Colony: daughters," she blushes, suddenly bashful, and looks away from Finnick's gaze, "But it came with a price. The man grew weak and then very, very ill. The nymphs were afraid their dying Colony had infected him. The sickness ran through him at a faster rate than any of the nymph's, and it was clear he was just days away from dying. There was nothing they could do."

"So he died." It's not a question, but a croak of a statement. Anneyce nods, though he's still not looking at her, instead watching the fire, stock still.

"When he died they were surprised to find the Colony revived from it's own sickness." Her voice drops a little, "And so, the ritual began. At first, the humans who trickled in were plentiful and the Colony prospered for another few thousand years. However, there was a catch."

"In order to flourish, the Colony needed to lure many human men in to sustain itself. It wasn't until the Council got word of what we were doing that they began to put a stop to it, closing the boundaries to the Great Forest and establishing the Guardians of the Great Forest. They were afraid the humans would somehow get past us, find a way home, and come back to take over the Great Forest."

"Before you showed up, the last man to enter our Colony was my father. And even then, it was three hundred years before you, when the Council's attempts to keep the humans out were still being laid out. After he died, the nymphs didn't see another living human for another hundred years. When you finally arrived, we were wrapped deep in sickness, and the Great Gardens were dying."

She tucks her hands under her legs at the end of her reveal, and it feels like a weight has slid from her shoulders. There was absolutely no turning back now that he knew. Anneyce could feel the line being drawn in the sand.  _But still..._

Her friends were in the Colony. Her family. She could not leave them defenseless.

"I need to help my people, Finnick." She tries to stop her voice from breaking; to hold strong to her emotions, her hands clenched into fists, "I cannot just abandon them. I cannot just let them die."

He's tight lipped as he responds, "So you want me to go back," now he looks up, his expression intense, "You want me to go through with it." The hurt in his voice is palpable and she flinches at the sharpness to it.

"I cannot let you die, either," her voice is a whisper so soft, that the trees cup it in their leaves.  _I don't want anyone to die._

Finnick's defensive stance melts just slightly at her proclamation, and he sighs, "Then what do you suppose we do? How can you save your Colony if you don't want to jeopardize someone's life in order to do so? From what you've told me, the Colony can't revive unless you have a human sacrifice."

Anneyce winces at the brash term  _sacrifice_. But isn't that what they are after all? A sacrifice?

No. Not just a sacrifice; a gift. Because a sacrifice implies a means to a cause – something specific they need. But what if there was another way? A different way?

She's quiet a moment, before she speaks the truth. "It's true we need a human man, but there are also other ways to rejuvenate the Colony without one."

Finnick cocks an eyebrow at this, "Excuse me?"

Anneyce looks to the forest floor, "I didn't want to tell you, since it's never been considered before."

"Never considered before?" He booms and she flinches, "You all wanted to succubus the life blood out of me, even though you had this other  _option?_  That you're only telling me about  _now?"_

"It's not that simple," she whispers, refusing to meet his shouts with her own, because she deserves them anyway. His anger is absolutely justified; it just hurts to have it directed at her.

"Oh, then by all means, please, explain," he's exasperated, jabbing at the fire once more to keep it flickering and she looks at him sadly.

"You need to understand, Finnick, that something like this is not a big fix," she says slowly, "We don't  _know_ what the other option is. As long as my generation and the generations before me has been alive, we've only ever done it one way."

He's quiet again as he let's it sink in. Slowly, he releases a breath, as if he were physically deflating. She reaches out to take his hand, and is extremely relieved when he does not retaliate against her touch.

"Annie," he says her name and her heart flies, but his tone is flat – all business, "What  _exactly_  are you trying to tell me?"

She closes her eyes, pondering his question. What  _is_  she trying to tell him? Why bring this up, if she were not trying to convince him of something?

She begins where she can.

"It's only happened once in the thousands of years the Colony has been alive," she whispers, eyes still shut. She feels his hand against her own, giving her clarity to sort through her thoughts, "Before humans were even a species that we encountered, we found we needed a way to sustain our dying civilization. We had been thriving for a couple hundred years, only to find our nymphs were growing sickly and dying out."

"If you need humans to reproduce, how did you come to be in the first place?" He asks abruptly.

Anneyce opens her eyes, taken by surprise at his sudden question. She looks at him with a sad smile, and shrugs, "That part of our history is not too clear. It's believed we were born from the Great Gardens themselves, grown like fruit. It would explain why we, as a species, are so interconnected with the Great Garden, in ways that no other beings that live in the Great Forest are." She sighs, "But that is all just speculation."

"You mean you don't know?"

"Well, do  _you_  know where  _you_  come from; who the first humans to walk the Earth were?" She challenges softly, and he's quiet, pondering her question before shaking his head.

"No. I don't," he sighs, "Good point."

He doesn't speak again after that, and she takes it as a cue to continue what she was trying to explain earlier, "There is a point in time where the lineage used other means to rejuvenate the Great Gardens. But that information has been lost in translation for a long, long time." Anneyce frowns. This must have been ages upon ages ago, before even her mother's-mother's- _mother_  was born.

He's quiet a moment, studying her. "So...the information just...got lost? From what it sounds like, you guys are all pretty much immortal, right? How does that kind of information just  _disappear?"_

"We are not immortal," she shakes her head, "we can die. We  _have_  died." She corrects, trying to keep from choking up.

"But my point is, you live long enough to see the passage of time in a deeper scope. Your own Queen must be centuries upon centuries of years old, right? How does she not know how to keep you guys going without bringing people like  _me_ into the equation?"

"She has not been our only Queen," Anneyce explains, "The Queen before her died, and she replaced her as next in line."

He narrows his eyes, suddenly skeptical, "It sounds to me like the Queen is keeping something from you."

"You're all doing just fine until...one day you're all dying out?" He shakes his head, "No, something is definitely up."

She chews her lip, her heart in a twist.

"So, what do we do about it?" He asks, not pressing the matter about the Queen any longer, "Where do we go from here?"

At this talk of lost information and kept secrets stir an answer that she's hesitant to bring up. But they're out of options, and there's really only one other place to turn to, if anything to try to find some kind of answer.

"I think," she begins, "we need to visit Isabelle."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I know it's not Wednesday, but I figured I'm late enough with this one it won't matter at this point.
> 
> Sorry for the really late update :^/ Midterms have crept up, I've been busy writing another short story for one of my fiction classes, and a whole slew of health stuff has been kind of keeping me from writing.
> 
> Though I know exactly how this story is going to end and have outlined the rest of the plot, I've burned through my pre-finished chapters for this fic, so everything that comes form here on out I have to start from scratch. Its busy work and hopefully I'll be able to stay on top of it better heh.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with it, and I hope to get the next chapter up by the 14th.
> 
> I also want to mention that I post this story on my Wattpad account (ecroeuf) along with some of my original work (non fanfic) - so if you feel like checking it out there, I'd appreciate it! I also post to a message board on there, especially if I'm late on a chapter (like with this one heh).
> 
> Anywho, I won't keep y'all any longer. Here's ch 8 :^)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Em

" _Isabelle?"_  Finnick says. His eyes are pinched as the orange glow of their fire harshly slaps raged edges of light into his face, and hands are balled into fists, but Anneyce thinks it's more of a stress release than anything out of anger. She resists the urge to reach over and smooth his hands out, unsure how he'd take her touch in this state of mind. His fingers pulse in the position, squeezing tight and releasing the pressure in a cycle as he likely wraps his head around everything. "Who is Isabelle?"

"Isabelle is a clairvoyant," Anneyce explains. At the last minute, she holds back from saying  _is a witch_. It's a rather negative connotation, and Anneyce didn't want to spin that into Finnick's head. Instead, she keeps the explanation as black and white as the situation allows. "She was the daughter in a house of nomadic psychics," she continues, "until she broke free and settled down elsewhere for…reasons."

"Reasons?" He quirks an eyebrow, and she tries not to take his skepticism personally. It was an odd predicament they found themselves in, and she could tell he was still trying to process the fact that, at one point not too long ago, he was on deaths door.  _Because of me._ The reminder sends a jolt through her chest, and she tries to keep the upsetting mix of emotions off her face as she answers his question.

"I'm not too sure why she left," Anneyce chews her lip, "She's kind of a…taboo topic in the Colony. They don't talk about her much. Or at all, really."

The nymphs were warned from seeking out her prophecies – for they often lead to destructive habits and disturbing scenarios. To the nymphs, knowing your future meant holding a weight that no creature should. The very nature of disturbing a set timeline was not taken lightly; to trust in the Great Gardens intentions was something that every nymph tried to hold herself to. Anneyce had yet to meet a nymph who has openly sought out her services and told about it. Those who do, tend to keep it hushed.

"Some say she got kicked out. Others say she just…left." Anneyce shrugs.

"So she's  _not_  a nymph?"

"No," Anneyce shakes her head, "Only those with lineage in the Great Garden are nymphs. Isabelle was part of a nomadic people – they don't stick to a specific section of the Great Forest. Instead they wander, and do trade with the other species in the Great Forest."

"Alright, so we find Isabelle and then…what?"

"As far as I know, she is one of the oldest living beings in the Great Forest," Anneyce shakes her head at the immensity of it. She's not as old as the Council, but she's definitely older than the Queen – and there's a lot of history to be held in that fact alone. "She's also one of the very few psychics who shares her gifts with others. She could probably help us figure out where to go from here…or if there's really anything we  _can_ do." If anyone may have answers for what to do in their situation, it would be her.

_Hopefully._

"If that's true, then why didn't anyone go to her  _before_ you opted to use humans as sacrificial lambs." Finnick argues, his voice sharp enough to cut stone. Anneyce flinches, uncomfortable. He notices her reaction to his outburst, and sighs, moving to roll his hands out over his knees nervously, "Sorry. I'm not mad at  _you_ , I'm just…mad at the situation. I know  _you_ didn't write any laws."

"No need to apologize, Finnick," she says softly, and then sighs, "Meetings with Isabelle are extremely frowned upon in the Colony." Anneyce explains, grimacing. "We like to keep our comings and goings to ourselves within the Colony, and that included our problems and vulnerabilities. The Queen considered human men the best option in that regard, and so it stayed that way for a very, very long time. A thousand years before my time."

Finnick studies her for a moment, before nodding. Relief pitches through her chest, and she feels her shoulders relax. It's messy and confusing, the way she wants desperately for him to not be upset with her. She doesn't necessarily deserve that, though, considering the situation her people have gotten him in. The thought of it sinks like a rock in her chest. If not for her, he wouldn't even be tangled in this mess.

"There's a chance she may know something, but there's a chance she may not." Anneyce warns, her voice soft as she tries to keep from upsetting him again, "But I think she's our best option right now."

_Our only option._

"Alright," he says, slowly.

Despite the wary tone in his voice, relief washes over her like a tide. She doesn't know what she's relieved  _about_ , really. Perhaps just the fact alone that he still has it in him to trust her, even after everything she's told him.

"How do we get to her?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes intense in the firelight.

"The idea is that you need to prove that you want to find her," Anneyce says, rising to get to the bag that she and Johanna packed. "Once you do that, she'll show you the way."

After a few moments of digging around, she eventually finds the object she was looking for. In a small vile, buttoned away in a side pocket of the bag, is a calling mixture. Various roots and seeds and herbs that the nymphs use, crushed and mixed for calling and strength. They're more of a sensation kind of object – their "powers" coming from texture and smell. Using them would potentially be a long shot, but it's their best bet.

Anneyce had watched robotically as Johanna tossed them in to the bag, at the time unsure what Johanna thought she would need them for. Though it's probably not what the intended use would be for, they'll come to be immensely handy. She vaguely recalls how to even attempt to summon Isabelle - not to keen on whether or not what she was about to do would even work. It had been a gossiping affair, a strategy she'd happened to have overheard from a source she can't really recall. The legitimacy of the ceremony was foggy at best, but she figured it wouldn't hurt to try.

Anneyce can feel Finnick watching her curiously as she uncurls the lid, pinching her fingers into the vile and dusting the contents out into a makeshift border that circles their small camp. When she closes the gap, effectively encircling them in the middle of it, she stops a moment to kneel on the ground. Touching her fingers to the line of sprinkled herbs, she closes her eyes, offering her proof.

_Please. We are in deep need._

Finnick lets her sit in silence for a minute or two, pushing her pleas into the circle, hoping that somehow, some way it gets to the intended person.

When she's drained all the need and spoke her peace, she moves towards the fire,

"Now what?" He asks extreme curiosity painted over his features. She smiles and offers a timid shrug.

"Now we wait for an answer."

* * *

 

They awoke in the center of a circle of mushrooms.

After Annie effectively sprinkled out the mixture into the ground and presented the waiting game, the two sat up most of the night, waiting for… _something_. Anything, really.

Finnick never meant to, but he eventually fell asleep, among their circle of herbs. He supposes Annie may have followed suit not long after, because she was curled in the leafy floor of their bed, sound asleep the next morning. He shakes her awake, his eyes pinned to the dotting circle of white-capped fungi, sitting in place of their circle of herbs. It's a startling thing, to think someone came to plant them right under their noses while they slept.

When she sees it, she gasps in surprise, and then stands in glee as she takes in the sight. She circles in place like a dog trying to find a spot to sleep, and her eyes hover the scope of the ground, and then make their way to the line of trees, before she's pointing and saying, "There!  _Over there!_  The path!"

He follows her line of sight, and sure enough, more mushrooms of the same type and size sit in a line that stretches beyond the trees. They disappear into the shadow of the forest, stretching towards the unknown.

"She heard us!" Her excitement is contagious, sparking out a new kindling of hope. The stretching expanse of her smile is enough to get his motor running, and he struggles to catch up as she dances towards the path. He scoops up the bag she was too eager to remember to pick up, and tramples behind her while she charges ahead, her nose to the ground like a bloodhound as she follows the path the mushrooms lay out.

It's not a quick journey – they follow Isabelle's breadcrumbs for what feels like a few hours. The mushrooms are plentiful, though, sitting in neat, unending rows stretching them deeper and deeper into the Great Forest. By the half hour mark, Annie's enthusiasm had weaned some, but she still seeks out the path with fervor, too involved in the task to be much for small talk. Finnick was left to mull over his thoughts; recap everything new he'd learned and the discussion he'd had with her the night before. One sentence in particular that she spoke last night had the tendency to pop around his head, like a buzzing fly trapped between windowpanes.

_The Queen considered human men the best option, and so it stayed that way for a very, very long time._

Another classic example of the Queen wished it, and so it stayed. It was even more evidence to the hypothesis he was brewing on the Queen: it was very obvious she was hiding something from her subjects. Something big, something important.

But Finnick of all people should know it was hard to shake a contract such as that – to be raised in the history of slaughter. Did it not mirror his own background? Only 70 years strong, and the people of Panem still held onto the tradition of the games: a tradition that slaughtered their own children. That hardly had anything on a  _thousand_ years of built in human sacrifice for the health of many.

Did that mean he necessarily agreed with it? No. But could he picture just why the Queen was able to get away with it for so long?

One look at Annie, in her strong-willed unshakable faith, and the answer comes easily. The nymphs trust and follow with utmost belief. They do what they need to do to survive, and the Queen used that mentality to her advantage. It's a blood boiling thought, the more he ponders on it, and it catches him by surprise with the emotion of it. Thinking about how this manipulation twisted its roots in Annie ticks him off.

He's hoping if there's one thing Isabelle can do, it's help her see sense in the harshness of it. He doesn't want to be the one responsible for crashing down the world that she knew, if he could help it. That was a burden he was hesitant to take on, since he knew the impact of it first hand.

He can distinctly remember the exact moment his own world burned down, not too long after he won the Games at 15. Life was rough before then, but it paled in comparison for what was coming to him afterwards. He played the game, followed the rules - to an extent. But he was young, and had yet to even touch upon what the word "consequences" could mean. Consequences paid heavy prices that came in the form of freedom, family, and emotional stability. He didn't realize the power of the word "no" until favors from the President trickled in after him like a fog.

Snow had granted him his first refusal with a slap on the wrist. The second time Finnick refused, he was rewarded with a jaded threat, whispered behind glasses of wine at a function for some kind of Victor's ceremony he couldn't recall.

And then the third and final refusal had cost him his family.

"There seems to be less of them for the last mile." Annie says, pulling him from his contemplations. Her stride doesn't skip a beat, but her brow furrows, confused at the pattern before her. Now that she's pointed it out, Finnick notices it too. What used to be a more compact line of fungi, now is only a scarce, dotted line.

He's hoping that's a sign that they're getting close.

Above, a raven ricochets through the trees, cawing an explosion of noise as it passes. Finnick watches it go, it's oil-slick plumage heading towards the direction the path leads. As it ghosts beyond the trees, three more whizz past the two of them, heading out in the same direction. Finnick and Annie pull to a stand still when they soar by, marking the first time they've stopped walking since they discovered the mushrooms.

"Alright…kind of creepy." Finnick murmurs, and Annie chews her lip, staring ahead.

"We should keep going," she says, rolling her shoulders before striding ahead once more.

 _Had she always been so resilient?_  Finnick was a little taken aback that he'd never noticed this part of her. It was kind of badass, really, watching her stride ahead towards the unknown.

Eventually, the mushrooms lead them towards a swamped out area. The thick, muted foliage choking out the sunlight ahead, casting dark shadows in front of them. Despite the darkened palette, the air grows humid and sticky, and Finnick feels a thin layer of sweat start to sit on top of his skin. Pools of thick, green water zigzag the path of mushrooms through the scarcely placed dry footholds. Moss chokes out most of the trunks of trees, and even more ravens sit to perch, watching the two of them trample through with beady eyes.

Finnick wonders just how far they're willing to take this, and he's contemplating vocalizing that they should probably try to find a different plan, when the mushroom trail goes cold.

Before them, a small house constructed of wood, brick, and foliage sits squat, locked in the middle of a moat of water. Its architecture seemed to droop under the weight of the humid air, dry twigs and lush vines crawling up and poking through messily lain brick. Even more mushrooms, this time of varying sizes and varieties dot the landscape like bushes of wildflowers. Smoke plumes in puffs from the chimney, and ghosts of candlelight identify the occupancy of the house.

_Isabelle's house._

Nothing points to that conclusion - no signs and no indicators other than the dotting of mushrooms. But a whisper of intuition rocks through his head. This is the end of the trail, and the clairvoyant sits just behind the doorway of this odd home. It's almost an eerie feeling, the surety of it.

The ravens re-appear, flocking in pairs on the low hanging branches of a compact beech tree stationed a few feet from the front door. Their eyes watch like dancing lights; not a sound coming from their purple plumage or sharp, curved beaks. Finnick can't shake the feeling that they feel  _sentient_ …more so than any kind of raven he's seen before. It was like they knew exactly who the two of them were and why they've come.

He has the singular horrifying thought that they could be mutts – but he shakes that off quickly enough, common sense leaking through his resolve. He was already spooked out enough without throwing that into the mix.

Somewhere, among the time it took the ravens to overtake the tree and the recognition that this was the house they were looking for, Annie's fingers envelope his own. He peers over at her, having not realized she'd come to stand so close.

Annie observes the house, completely overlooking the ravens altogether. Her eyebrows set into line, forming a crevice of deep worry. She looks over at him when he offers her fingers a small squeeze, her serious expression blanketing the both of them.

"You okay?" He asks, because it seems like the appropriate question.

Annie takes a moment to chew on it, frowning. She looks back at the house, her eyes rolling over the expanse of it before quietly answering his question, "Is it silly to say that I feel guilty coming here?"

"No, it's not silly." He assures. She _had_  mentioned that she wasn't a popular topic in the Colony. How had she described it? Taboo? It's got to be a culture shock showing up here, especially if you had been raised to vehemently avoid it.

"Visiting Isabelle has always been something that a nymph just doesn't do." Her fingers squeeze into his. The ravens rustle in their tree, knowing eyes lined on them like targets, "The fact that I'm here…it feels  _wrong._  Illegal." She whispers that last bit, her gaze hovering over the birds, as if she were afraid of their eavesdropping.

"We can turn back, if you'd like. Figure out another option."

She shakes her head, "No, there is no other option. We need to do this." She rolls out her shoulders again, another wave of determination washing over her features, "I want to know what she knows."

Finnick nods, a little relieved. They needed answers, and he thinks Isabelle is their best bet for that. He waits for her to move again, and she wastes no more time, keeping her grip of his hand as she almost tugs him along. Annie seems unbothered by the ravens, but Finnick eyes them almost warily as they pass the beech tree to stumble upon the front door. Their tiny heads swivel with the duos movements, almost robotically. He sizes them up, putting up the screen of a face he uses when addressing Capitol elites. Fake, political,  _strong._ Tempting them to challenge him. The birds don't react, and with that he turns his attention to the front door of the house, officially putting his back to the odd creatures.

There's no doorbell or knocker set on the round, knobbed door.

"Should we knock?" Annie asks, her expression a mixture of wary and confusion.

"I guess so." He ghosts a look over her a moment, waiting for her to change her mind, but she just nods. He returns it with a gesture of his own, and then peers over his shoulder one last time to the raven tree.

But the peculiar birds were now gone, having absconded from the tree almost as if in thin air. A shiver runs down his spine as he gazes back to the doorway.

"Well, no turning back now,"he mutters to himself, raising a hesitant hand towards the warped wood.

He knocks.


	10. Chapter 10

The first initial knock feels like the crack of a whip; it ricochets off the hollow of the door like a bullet. They wait, but there is no response, so he knocks a second time, this time in a few quick raps. When that gathers no result, he knocks a third and final time.

Though the door  _felt_  shut under his knuckles with the first few knocks - even with the gentle pressure he'd been expelling - the third knock pushes the door open like a small breeze. They watch, as the knobbed door swings open slowly, revealing no one behind it. They freeze, not sure what to do.

" _Well, are you going to go in, or just stand there?"_

Finnick jumps, swiveling at the unknown voice that came from behind them.

Like with the appearance of the ravens, the owner of the voice seemed to materialize out of thin air. One moment, Finnick was positive the two of them approached the house alone, only to be joined by her company the next.

She looked like a mirage.

The girl stood tall and willowy, accentuated even more so by the low hanging dress wrapped almost haphazardly around her thin frame, the sleeves long tipping over her hands, like mittens. Bundled in her arms was a large basket, filled to the brim with lily pads. She blinks her tired looking eyes slowly, like a lizard, and tipped her head to the side in curiosity. Her frizz of curls, voluminous and long, moved like a unit with the tilt of her head, pulling back like a curtain to reveal the slope of her neck.

Dotted along her collarbone and up her neck were mushrooms, stuck in place as if they'd grown straight from her skin.

Finnick feels Annie shuffle on her feet at the sight, at a loss for words. He peers a glance to her, and she's trying to look at anything but the mushrooms growing from the girl's neck, her expression tight. The tall girl's eyes roam unabashed between the two of them, before anchoring on Annie's face.

"You're the one's who called." She comments, and Annie sucks in a small breath, startled.

"You know who we are?" Annie says, a huff of surprise and awe twinkling through her eyes. There's also something mixed in her expression as well – something that Finnick recognizes caution. He tenses, more alert than before.

"You two have come a long way," the girl says, skipping over Annie's outburst, and Finnick has the feeling she's speaking more than just physical distances, "I was wondering when you would show up."

_So this is the clairvoyant?_ Finnick arches an eyebrow. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it probably wasn't this. She seemed young – no older than nineteen or twenty, not over a thousand years old, like Annie described.

"It was a long walk," Finnick responds, watching Annie still work through the process of what the girl – Isabelle - had said to her.

"I suppose so." Isabelle tilts her head again, this time in the other direction, like a puppy trying to hear then better. It'd be endearing if she didn't move so robotically. She rolls her shoulders, setting the basket she held down to her feet. "Though I admit I was getting a  _tiny bit_  antsy. I even sent envoys, to make sure you were still on path."

"The ravens." Finnick murmurs, and the clairvoyant smiles at his observation, the pits of her mouth stretching across her cheeks. She appears impressed, proud even.

"Isabelle, we -" Annie starts, but the strange psychic cuts her off.

"Just Izzie," the enigmatic girl corrects, slowly stretching her long arms above her head. Her lose sleeves roll up her triceps, and Finnick starts at the sight of even more species of fungi dotting the expanse of her forearms. They've hooked on like leeches, growing off the branches of her arms. "Isabelle has always been far too formal for me, I'm afraid. Where's the fun in formalities?"

Annie pauses, observing her arms with a deeply startled expression. She closes her mouth, opens it, and then closes it again, tightlipped as she fidgets with her hands. Finnick can tell she's getting flustered, unsure how to read the situation, and likely over stimulated in the oddness of it all. He'd had practice dealing with eccentric types, body modification and all; Izzie seemed no different.

"Izzie," Finnick corrects, tossing his companion a look before taking the reigns as the communicator. "Right…well, as Annie was saying, we're here because we need your help."

She smiles again, that long, humorous gaze that contrasts deeply with her tired eyes. She pulls her arms back, behind her and pulls, puffing out her chest in a deep stretch. When she completes that, she rolls her head and cracks her back. It's an odd thing to watch; she moves with the fluidity of a cat, but with the tightness of a machine.

When she finishes her misplaced stretches, she gestures beyond the two of them, to the doorway, "Shall we get started, then?"

Izzie doesn't wait for them to lead the way, instead bending to pick up her basket of aquatic plants and brushing between them toward the open doorway.

"You sure about this?" Finnick mutters to Annie.

"I don't know." Annie murmurs back, but follows after Izzie, the house swallowing her up without a second glance. He stands, watching the empty threshold, waiting for…something. Taking a deep breath, he crosses the threshold, into the dark house.

When he follows after, he finds the two standing around a small table tucked in the corner of the front room, where Izzie had promptly dumped out the basket of lily pads, fervently sorting them into piles based on characteristics he couldn't puzzle. Annie stands to her side, watching the process curiously.

"What are you going to do with all of those?" He asks.

"Do you want them?" Izzie responds, glancing up from her task, and then looks him up and down, "No. No, that's stilly. You don't." She shakes her head and returns to her sorting, a small humored smile on her lips, at some sort of inside joke. Finnick figures that that's the best he's going to get out of that conversation, so he takes to observing the rest of the house.

The smell of ash and grass permeated the home. It's compact and dark, walls seeming to segment everything out in chunks. Smatterings of windows provide enough light to see, but the dark wood of the interior gives everything a shadowed feeling. Dried plants line the walls, nailed in place in an order that seemed without rhyme or reason. It was tidy enough, despite that, and where clutter sat it seemed to pool it selves into organized piles.

It appeared she had other projects like the lily pads – freshly cut flower heads segmented into different coded piles near the fireplace, and mounds of twigs lining the corners of the room they stood in. He's not sure if the repetition of placed objects makes him feel a little bit more relieved to see, or puts him even more on edge. He walks back towards the table, catching a bit of the conversation Annie had started up.

"How did you know we were coming?" Annie asks, "Did you hear our call?"

"Hmm, partially yes," she says, picking up a lily pad gentle between fingers before holding it up to the light of the window, squinting through its brightened anatomy. She looks at it for a few moments, before sending it to its own pile, off towards the corner of the table. "Mostly had to do with him, though," she nudges her chin towards Finnick, already filing out the next lily pad.

"Me?"

"Humans always throw the energy off-balance. Like a…kink in the system." Izzie explains, "It grows stronger the closer you approach."

"So you knew I was here right off the bat?" He asks, trying to ignore how that information sends a shiver down his spine. If this weirdo knew the exact moment he crossed over, who  _else_ was aware of his presence?

"I felt it the moment you slipped over the barrier. That's how I knew it was finally going into motion." She looks up at Annie and shrugs, "Once that happened, I figured I'd better stay extra…attentive the next few weeks, should someone call for me. I guess I was right."

"Wait, you knew that  _what_  was going into motion?" He asks.

"You said you were here for my help." Izzie responds, not looking up from her sorting. There's a small dip in her movement, though. She paused before picking up the next lily pad. She's skirting the question, but Annie speaks up before Finnick can circle her back.

"We're here to receive some guidance." Annie explains, quietly. "We want to know what…the best option for us."

"So a reading, then." Izzie says, standing up straight from the table and cracking her hands out in front of her. Finnick realizes she had a fascinating with stretching – pulling her limbs in front of her like a cat. "Specifically in pathways, if I'm right."

She waves her hands, gesturing for them to follow her into a side room. It's small, but brighter than the rest of the house; sprinkles of candlelight casting a flickering orange glow against the purple tapestry strung on the walls. Shelves stocked with capped, labeled vials sit dusty on shelves, packed next to piles of books.

In the center of the room, sits a squat table, where Izzie floats herself down. Annie follows suit, and after a scarce moment of deliberation, he follows her lead. The glow of the candles flicker their shadows onto the walls, punching them into the room.

From under the table, Izzie pulls out a small box and sets it on the table. Unlatching and lifting the lip, she retrieves a small needle, long, bright red thread, a granite pestle, and a bottle of dried mushrooms. Finnick eyes the mushrooms carefully.

"Okay," Izzie begins, but Annie cuts her off quickly.

"Wait, before we start," Annie says, "What kind of payment do you need…?"

The girl smiles, her eyes sparkling against the orange candles. She's mischievous now, as if she were in on a secret that they weren't. Finnick's stomach drops a moment, nervous about what amount she'll say. What's the price to know your future?

But then slowly, she closes her eyes, and opens her mouth.

"It was already paid for by your mother."

* * *

Izzie's words send a shock straight to Anneyce's gut. The very idea of what her words means, that her mother  _had been here_ , paralyzes her. A thousand questions swim through her head, knocking into her chest like a battering ram.  _When was that? Why was she here?_

_Why didn't she tell me?_

"You know my mother?" Anneyce asks, and her voice breaks a little at the end of the question, the emotion of it bubbling up and over.

"Not particularly." Izzie releases a deep breath, not out of irritation, but more so like she were releasing tightness in her chest. Her heady eyes remained closed, but she rolls her head to the side lightly.

"But she visited you?" Anneyce points out. "You said that yourself."

"Yes," now the peculiar girl opens her eyes, slowly, like she was waking from a deep sleep, "However, a single meeting doesn't guarantee  _knowing_ a person."

"You knew who I was." Anneyce argues. "You knew who Finnick was."

"I know a lot of things," Izzie explains. "I know a lot of things that people seems to overlook. But that doesn't mean I  _know_  a person."

Anneyce immediately wants to ask why her mother was here, but she forces herself to hold her tongue, suddenly nervous. Does she want to know the answer to that? Does she want  _anyone_ to know?

And then, another chilling thought: does Anneyce really  _know_  her mother? Why wouldn't she tell her about visiting the clairvoyant? It was taboo, yes, but did her own mother not trust her enough?

She shifts a glance to Finnick, who is watching her intently, his eyes a little wide at the surprise. Silently, he offers her his hand beside her on the table, palm up, and she takes it without hesitation. It grounds her, the moment his fingers slip through his, balancing out the impact of this new information buzzing through her veins. She feels sick, but she tries to swallow it back.

"How do we know you're not tricking us?" Finnick asks, his tone sharp, serious. "How do we know you say who you are? Do you  _really_  know who her mother is, like you say you do?"

Usually lazy in her movements, it sends a jolt through Anneyce when Izzie's head snaps in his direction. She arches an eyebrow, in challenge.

"You are the 65th winner." She says to him smoothly. Whatever it means, his hand tightens around Anneyce. He pulls his lips into a flat line, his expression unreadable, despite the new paleness in his face. Izzie faces Anneyce now, and uses the same flat tone. "And  _you_  are the Singer's daughter."

Izzie waits, allows them to swallow back her words. Anneyce looks at Finnick and finds him watching her too. Whatever what she said to Finnick means, it was enough to sober him. He nods slightly.

"Not that the formalities are out the way." Izzie drawls, pressing her palms to the table. Anneyce notices the same anomaly she did about the skin on Izzie's hands when she was watching her sort the lily pads. The tips of her fingernails are chipped and haggard; coated in dirt. The skin of her hands, trailing all the way up to her forearms, was dark with mud and blackened skin, underneath a dotting of mushrooms. It was an odd appearance, and Anneyce wonders on the relationship of it. Were the fungi a part of her, or just inhabiting her skin, like a parasite to a host? "Shall we begin?"

The two are silent as Izzie threads the red twine through the needle, and then stabs the end of it into the table. Giving up a bit of slack, she winds the thread around her finger, and then passes it to her right, instructing Anneyce to do the same. Anneyce wraps the thread around her thumb, before handing it off to Finnick to do the same. Izzie takes the end of the thread to wrap completely around the needle, until the shine of silver is swallowed in a sweater of red.

"You each have three questions, no more." Izzie explains, her tone even and quiet. "Do not speak them aloud, but instead think about them, while I grind these up. What do you wish to know?" She takes the mushrooms, puts them into the mortar. Anneyce closes her eyes, against the background noise of grinding mushrooms.

_What do you wish to know?_

Anneyce holds her breath, as she thinks on it. She tries to clear all thoughts of her mother – that was another challenge for another day; her mother wasn't why Anneyce was here today. Finnick's knee knocks into her own accidentally from under the table, and then a second time as he presses it against her. It muddles her thoughts and brings clarity all at the same time, in a confusing mix.

_I wish to know how to save Finnick._

The first question slips through easy enough, and with the first one uttered, she's able to relax into the process of what she needs to do. She hears Finnick whistle a sigh through his lips. The second question bubbles up naturally, a connection to the first:

_I wish to know how to save the nymphs._

With the second question, she thinks of the Colony, and the Queen. She thinks of Izzie.

She thinks of her mother.

_I wish to know who to trust._

She opens her eyes and frowns. She's not too sure what she means with that last one, but it feels desperate. It fits in place. She looks over to Finnick, and he's watching Izzie intently. Candlelight outlines his hooked nose in orange, and she wants to ask what his questions were, but she's afraid to mess up the reading.

"Have you asked?" Izzie asks, pinching the ground up mushrooms between her fingers. They both nod and she smiles before tossing the pinched mushrooms into her mouth. She hands the mortar to Anneyce, who does the same. Finnick hesitates, the mortar cupped delicately in his palm.

With a sigh, he pinches his own portion back.

Izzie rolls her shoulders, and closes her eyes. Her breathing becomes slow out her nose. The candles flicker out in a simultaneous gust, and the mushrooms on her neck begin to glow slightly – a sharp blue color. Anneyce freezes at the sight, and she feels a tug on the thread around her finger, and looks down to find the needle spinning in place, slowly winding the thread tighter around.

Tiny whispered voices reverberate around her head, asking questions she catches the tail ends of, or inaudible singing that sits just outside her range of hearing. Izzie breathes in sharply through her nose a few times, and opens her mouth, her voice slow and deliberate, mingling with the voices, reverberating inside Anneyce's own head in a disorienting chant.

" _Printed pages show sacred ties…boundary crossing will seal the fate…you will seek assistance from stolen reflections…a hidden prisoner will be revealed…"_

The five phrases repeat themselves like a tornado in her head, and Anneyce grips the edge of the table, her heart ramming in her chest at the sensation of it. It's a cycle of chanting that feels like it lasts for  _hours._ A wind picks up in the room, blowing their hair and sending a chill up her spine.

Just as sharply as it began, however, things suddenly  _stop_. The glowing mushrooms stop, the voices in Anneyce's head cease, and Izzie's eyes open slowly. If not for the pounding in her chest, and her vise-like grip on the table, Anneyce could be convinced that nothing even happened.

"What," Finnick whispers, "was that?"

"The reading." Anneyce whispers, shell-shocked.

Izzie is smiling her long, flat smile, her hands splayed over the table once more, "I have to say, you two have an…interesting journey ahead of you."

"That was the reading?" Finnick asks, his face scrunches, "But it didn't tell us anything!"

Izzie arches an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest, argumentative. "You asked for guidance, did you not?"

"Yeah, but not some kind of cryptic…junk." Finnick shakes his head, "What good is a clairvoyant if you don't tell us our future?"

"I did not say I would tell you your future." Izzie responds her tone eerily even compared to the alto of Finnick's growing irritation. "To do so would be…wrong."

"Wrong?" Anneyce interjects. "What do you mean wrong?"

"You are in control of your own fate." Izzie says, "To know where you'll be tomorrow alters you ability to choose your path. It's dangerous, to play with choice." She lifts an eyebrow, turning to Finnick, "You of all people should know the dangers of not having choice."

Finnick's jaw twitches, his eyes turning to flames. Anneyce can tell he's losing whatever finely tuned patience he had with Izzie. She unwraps the thread from her finger, moving to stand. Finnick hastily unwraps his own finger, scrambling to his own feet, after her.

"I apologize if your reading did not go the way you had hoped." Izzie says, making no moves to stand, opting to watch them from the floor. Despite the tense situation, her words don't feel false: they drip in honest apology.

"What do we do now?" Finnick asks, but it's a question sent primarily to Anneyce. She can feel a small headache seeping its way into the space behind her eyebrow, and her stomach is still churning from the unexpected news about her mother. Simply put: she doesn't know what to do, which is unfair for Finnick, but she's so, so tired.

_I'm as confused as I was before,_ Anneyce thinks,  _if not even more._

She bites her tongue, though, afraid to admit this. It was her idea to visit the clairvoyant, after all.

"If you would like to spend the night, you are welcome to." Izzie interjects, and Finnick studies her, scanning for any kind of dishonesty. Anneyce wishes he would put his guard down; Izzie has helped a lot, despite the circumstances, and it was more than polite of her to offer a place to stay.

"Are you sure? We don't want to intrude." Anneyce murmurs, despite everything inside her screaming for a night of rest off the forest floor.

"This part of the Great Forest gets a bit…punchy at night." Izzie shrugs and then smiles slow and sincere. "Plus, I  _never_ get guests. This will be fun."

"If you insist," Finnick answers with a sigh. Then, begrudgingly, offers a small "thank you." Anneyce smiles at him, relieved.

Izzie nods, "You're welcome." She rises, slowly, like a vine scaling the trunk of a tree and exaggerates a stretch. "Follow me, and I'll make you your bed."

She ghosts through the doorway of the room, not looking behind her to see if they were trailing behind. Anneyce looks to Finnick, and his eyes were narrowed, taking in the doorway where Izzie just disappeared through. He catches her watching him, and offers the same skeptical gaze.

"What do you think?" It's a loaded question that could mean so many things, and Anneyce's shoulders deflate a little, mustering up the only answer she can really give right now. Anything else wouldn't be sincere.

"I think we need to sleep on everything from today." Her eyes follow towards the empty threshold. "And…I think we can trust her."

She watches Finnick again, watches his expression twitch as he folds over options and chews on what she said. With a sigh, resolve sets on his face.

"Alright. If you can trust her, then I guess I can, too."

She tries to not show much his faith in her opinion matters to her. It lights up in her chest like a spark – licking up the entirety of her in flames. She feels like she can float.

"Lets go, before she notices us lingering," she murmurs, the flutter in her chest distracting. Together, they move to leave the small reading room, not before she turns back to observe it one last time.

Anneyce tries to ignore how the candles were once again flickering, relit in the time between conversations without her noticing when or how.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Been quite a hiatus on this one, and I apologize. I tried to constraint myself to a bi-weekly posting basis, but I just never can stick to that, so I'm just gonna stick with sporadic updates and hope I hit the mark before too long lol.
> 
> I want the chapters to feel finished - this story is years in the making, so I want it to get hit with everything I got!
> 
> Thanks and happy reading!

Izzie instructed that they sleep in the main room across from the kitchen, and neither saw reason to oppose. 

If anything, it was one of the more empty rooms in the cabin – not covered by clutter and collected pairs of items stuffed in corners, and dried plants hanging from ceilings. Anneyce was grateful to be sleeping with some sort of roof over her head, and she was sure Finnick felt the same: as soon as he dropped into the blanket pile that Izzie had laid out for them, the impact of the day caught up to him, knocking him out.

It was a sweet kind of relief for Anneyce to watch him fall asleep so easily, and she simply sat up to watch his chest rise and fall rhythmically for a few moments.

Though her body ached and the need to sleep sat on her chest, she rose to her feet anyway.

Izzie had not returned. She had slipped through the room’s doorway to a side room after making them their bed, under the guise that she would be back. But that had been hours ago, and Anneyce had questions.

Questions she wanted to ask without an audience: just her and the clairvoyant.

The house whispers under her feet as she works her way through the maze of rooms. Though it looked rather compact from the outside, the inside of Izzie’s home was dotted with rooms that felt like they spanned for yards upon yards. It was like someone pieced together the cottage with layouts of other homes, stitching them together to join awkward rooms and weirdly misplaced hallways.

When she came to conclusion that Izzie was not in the house, she navigated her way to out the front door. Strands of moonlight winding through breaks in the large trees that seems to engulf the swampy forest, and Anneyce squints through the dark, her eyes trying to adjust. The only light comes from a vague, hazy glow of the mushrooms that dot the yard like mist.

It wasn’t hard to find Izzie – she was sitting against the ropey trunk of the beech tree, her legs crossed and her arms tipped upon on the side of her knees. It’s a startling sight: with the fungi sprawling across her skin and the stillness of her limbs in the moonlight, she looked like a corpse. If not for the slow, rhythmic moving of her chest, Anneyce would be convinced she  _was_ a corpse.

She approaches slowly, unsure if she should interrupt. She had a faint idea of what she wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure how to get there, or how to fumble through the knotted mess in her chest. She wasn’t sure she wanted half of the answers she was seeking – what would it mean to know them?

“I’ve been looking around for you.” Anneyce says in lieu of a greeting. She’s not sure if Izzie noticed her approach, and besides she figured it’d be rude to start grilling her out of nowhere. “I hope we haven’t kicked you out of your home.”

Izzie’s eyes remain closed, but she cracks the smallest of smiles.

“There are those,” the clairvoyant says, “who think that if you sit as still as the trees, you will become one.”

_So that’s what she’s doing out here._ It’s a strange mindset, but Anneyce would be lying if she didn’t understand the lure of it. There had been a time when she was really little that she liked to lay in the grass and look up at the sky. If she lay there long enough, watching the thick clouds breeze by and the leaves straining from the tops of the trees, she could swear she started to feel like one of the birds.

“My mother visited you.” She says, because it felt like the safest way to start.

“As did you.” Izzie responds easily, her eyes opening slowly as if she were waking from a deep sleep. She stays in place, though, hardly moving an inch. Anneyce wonders idly how long she’d have to stay there to become a tree. “Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.”

“Can I ask you what was she here for?” Anneyce asks, and she hates how speaking the question aloud ignites a heavy drumming in her chest.

_Why wouldn’t she have told me?_

“She sought the same answers you seek.” Izzie clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, eyes widening now, like her own words surprise her. “You’re a continuation of her bookended work.”

Anneyce frowns. All the cryptic speaking was giving her a headache, but patience was her virtue, so she took to sitting down across from the clairvoyant to level a decent conversation. The ground is cool, almost wet, under her skin and it sends a shiver up her back.

“And what work is that?” Anneyce asks.

Instead of answering, Izzie levels her a steady gaze. Anneyce isn’t sure what she’s looking for. She wiggles uncomfortably under her stare.

Finally, Izzie responds to the question, “I cannot tell you too much, simply because there is a reason she never told you herself.”

The response sits like a rock in her stomach, and a rush of frustration hits her temple. She’s not upset with Izzie, but just the situation in general. If anything, it’s more proof of secrecy that she didn’t even know her mother had.

“All I can say is that there is a strong reason for her secrecy.” Izzie pauses, thinking, and then adds. “And that you are closer than you were before to finding out why.”

“Is it something I even want to know?” Anneyce asks before she can help herself. “Does it affect anything we do from here on out?”

“Yes, no, maybe.” Izzie shrugs. “Time and destiny are both fickle and strong. But I will say, the path you are on leads narrow for quite some time here on out. You’ve already encountered a strong crosshair.”

Anneyce tries to figure what the crosshair might have been; she has an inkling that Izzie won’t tell her if she asks. Was it coming here in the first place? Running from the Colony, taking Finnick with her? All of it  _combined?_

It makes her head spin trying to pinpoint all of it. She tries to see it from the outside, but it’s all a map with confusing lines. The only thing she’s certain of is they never  _felt_ like deliberate choices. Of course she was going to save Finnick. Of course.

So where had been the diverge in the road? How did it cross with this one? At what point did it begin to matter?

“I don’t know how you can do this.” Anneyce blurts, “Picturing my own destiny gives me a headache. How can you stomach doing it for  _other_ people?”

“The secret is to understand nothing is linear.” Izzie explains, “And nothing is really set in stone. What I tell you today could be false tomorrow. Of course, that’s just the iceberg of it all.”

Anneyce can’t decide if that last part is assuring or just incredibly frustrating. Maybe both.

They were quiet for a period of time, Izzie’s eyes wide and watching, her body so still while Anneyce seeps in it all. Somewhere, in a throng of grass to the left of her knee, a cricket trills one sharp song at a time.

“Is that all you’ve come out here to ask of me?” Izzie asks, but it’s not unkind. She asks it softly, as if probing for more from Anneyce.

“I suppose.” Anneyce sighs. “I’m sorry about coming out here to bother you. I guess I was just floored you met with my mother.” And then, a detail of what Izzie had mentioned earlier reoccurs. “How did you know I was the daughter of the Singer?”

“It’s the expression you wear.” Izzie relents, face softening in the moonlight. She pushes her legs out straight in front of her, rolling even further back against the bark of the tree supporting her upright. “You share the same odd, darkened features of your sisters, but one never forgets the mechanics of a face.”

Anneyce ruminates in that for a while, feeling warm and sad. She hadn't thought of her mother's physical features for a long, long time. There was a while where even thinking about her hurt - much less what appearance she held and how that related to the features on Anneyce's own face. 

It still hurts, but now it's also a small comfort.

“It’s also in the soul." Izzie adds. "She was softhearted – it radiated off her in waves. Much like you do, right now.” She shakes her head. “Things like that can’t be learned or adapted. It’s a passing of her genes. You share her spirit.”

Anneyce’s conflicted feelings regarding her mother’s secrecy melts a little at the clairvoyant’s words, which is a bit of a relief she didn't realize she needed. Up until this point, she'd felt unsteady, like she never really knew her mother at all, but seeing someone besides herself pick up on the softness of her mother was another comfort. That it wasn't another allusion that grief put in place.

As if Izzie could tell her words hit a positive nerve, she steadies her gaze on the nymph girl and adds, “Your mother was a kind soul. Always the soft spot for human men.” She continues, smiling cheekily, “Never saw the appeal, myself. They are more havoc than they were worth.”

Anneyce’s heart skips a beat.

“What do you mean?”

“Humans were frivolous,” Izzie shrugs, seemingly bored. “One may even say stupid, but personally I think that’s a rude generalization for a species not from this world.”

“No, not that. The part about my mother.”

Izzie smirks, “I figured that’s what you meant. But I think you already know the answer to that question, Anneyce.”

Anneyce thinks for a moment. Conversations between herself and her mother about Anneyce’s father come flooding in. From the soft way she would talk about him to the sparkle that danced in her eyes - Anneyce had never heard another nymph speak about human men the way her mother had. Sure, the nymphs who’d lived through the previous rituals would hark on the men’s physical beauty, but there was always a touch of something  _more_  to the way her mother would speak about him.

Anneyce had just been under the impression that to speak about the humans that way was a private thing, and her mother had always seemed to back that mentality up.

_“You cannot repeat what I tell you, Anneyce, because it is something meant for your ears only.”_ She'd whisper to her, huddled up together in the tiny cabin, Anneyce's eyes sparkling with her mother's tales of her father.

Anneyce figured it was a family jewel – to know about her father’s heart was a personal gift shared between herself and her mother only. She figured every nymph daughter knew such intimate,  _human_  parts about their fathers, so there was no need to speak on it. But now she’s not so sure that’s right.

Did her parent’s relationship span beyond what was expected of them?

_Were they in love?_

She shakes her head, the thought too heavy to carry on her shoulders. She had never heard of such a thing. Sure, the nymphs loved the human – but more so in a way that they loved the flowers, the food they grew, the brooks they bathed in. It was a love borne from necessity, from  _use_.

It was never meant to be reciprocal.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Anneyce says slowly. And then, quieter, “Did she come to you  _because_  of my father?”

“He was tangled in the web of reasons.” Izzie answers. “But yes, she did.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Izzie offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s a sad, almost pitying look and for some reason, it shocks Anneyce more coldly than anything else she had learned tonight.

“You already know the answer to that, too, Singer’s daughter.”

“It has to do with the ritual, doesn’t it?” Anneyce says, her voice growing quiet. She wants to shout, to yell. But somewhere, something deep inside her puts a stop to the emotion of it – she caps off, going soft and exhausted. “There’s more to what we know, isn’t there? There’s another way to fix the Colony?”

“You had asked me to show you the answers to three questions.” Izzie responds. “One of them was the wish to know who to trust.”

It takes Anneyce a moment to understand she’s talking about the reading she did earlier with Finnick. Her questions seem less weighted, now as she recalls them, compared to everything else swimming in her head. Humans, and her mother, and love. 

“I did.” Anneyce says, voice weary. “I also asked how to save my people, and save Finnick.”

“You should know,” Izzie responds, voice a murmur against the soft night, “that those are all the same question.”

* * *

Finnick rouses to a shifting in the makeshift bed they had crafted like a nest on the floor. In retrospect, such a small jostle (in what is essentially one or two layers of blanket on a hardwood floor) shouldn’t have sent a shock wave big enough to rip him from sleep, but after spending the last few days on the forest floor, the simplest of bedding made him hyperaware of the smallest shift – like the princess and the pea. He stretches, rolling to his side and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Sorry. It’s just me, go back to sleep.”

There’s a hint of an odd tenor in Annie's voice that only causes him to rouse more, and he shifts to his elbow to watch her in the dark. Her lips are drawn in a tight line, and she doesn’t notice his watching, probably expecting him to have already fallen back asleep. And he probably  _would_  have, without questioning her absence and return that woke him up to begin with, if not for the smallest warble in her voice catching his attention.

“Were you always here?” He asks and she looks at him, her expression saying she’s very obviously pre-occupied with something in her mind.

“No, I’m actually one of Izzie’s ravens.”

He’s a bit too drowsy to pick up on her sarcasm at first, but eventually he catches on she’s joking and lets out a surprised laugh.

“I went out to talk to her,” she tacks on, her tone hesitant. And then she adds. “About my mother.”

“Ah.” He responds, suddenly nervous. Though she never spoke much about her mother until now, Finnick had the feeling it was heavy territory. He had no idea how to proceed. He was never good with hard topics – his default was usually humor or flirtation of some sort, but he feels the occasion warrants more than that. Thankfully, however, Anneyce changes the topic before he has to say anything.

“Finnick, can I ask you a question?” Her voice is still low, but in the way that the dark coaxes a person to tread carefully with their words. “About the Colony?”

Now he really sits up, not entirely sure where this was coming from.

“What?” He asks as she sits up beside him, her expression calculating.

“Do you really believe that the Queen is…keeping something from us?” Her eyes are serious and conflicted as she stares at him, waiting for what he has to say.

The way she asked is so painfully sad. It’s a heart wrenching kind of question, and it almost makes him wish he took back his harsh words from the other day. That he chose them more carefully. From his time spent with Annie, he knows that obviously she never instigated any of this – she was just part of a system so ingrained into stone that it was unthinkable to see things any other way.

But he knows she’s also looking for the truth, and trusts him enough to give it to her.

“Yes,” he responds softly, “I do.”

She closes her eyes, and nods once in a quick, jerky movement. He watches her chest inflate in a large pull of air, before releasing it slowly.

“I think,” she pauses, tasting her words. Her voice is so quiet, that it’s almost hoarse. “I think that I’m starting to believe it, too.”

There’s a weight in the air. Finnick gets the sense there’s more she wants to say, so he waits, letting the quiet pull the words out from her. It works slowly.

“All of those lives.” She whispers into the dark room. “All of those humans. My father… _you,”_  she sucks in a shaky breath. “I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Where do we go from here?” Her voice is small as she continues, her shoulders shaking. “What do - what can I do to  _fix this?”_

Finnick places a comforting hand on her shoulder, feeling the trembling beneath her start to wane. She leans into the touch instantly, and he’s relieved. It was an action he did without thought, like second nature. He saw she was upset, so the next natural step was to comfort. 

_When had it come to that?_

“We need to find answers.” Finnick says, trying not to feel self conscious about his thumb circling the nook of her shoulder. If she notices or cares, she doesn’t say. “Maybe Izzie knows…?”

Annie shakes her head, and a slip of her hair brushes against his fingers. It sends a small shock wave of shivers up his arm, and he tries to ignore it and focus on what she's saying. “Whether or not she knows anything doesn’t matter. She’s not going to tell us. Not in black and white terms, at least.”

“Is there anyone else, then? Who would know anything?”

Annie is quiet a moment, thinking. He’s now intensely aware of his hand on her shoulder, and he’s wondering if the time for comforting has officially passed. Should he move it? Leave it? Why did he care so much?

“The only ones I can think of would be the Council, and even then, approaching them with a human in tow is…risky.” Annie answers, chewing on the edge of her bottom lip.

“The Council?” Finnick says. She had mentioned them before, in passing. He’d been too preoccupied in his own emotional drama to really focus on it. Sometimes everything about this place was  _loud_ , the details getting lost in his own head as he tries to keep up with everything. “They’re the ones who started the ban on humans, right?”

Annie nods. “The Council is the authoritative voice for the Great Forest.” She continues, “Legends say they are older then the trees themselves. They watch over the wellbeing of the forest itself, as well as its inhabitants.”

“Which includes sicking their large rock monsters after us?”

She smiles at him, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. He gives her shoulder a small squeeze. “I mean this lightly, Finnick, when I say that you are a… _foreign_  object to the ecosystem.” She says softly, “For a while, we had allowed crossover from your world to ours, until we realized the repercussions of what nature means to your kind.”

His expression must have been one of confusion, so she clarifies further.

“We watched as you fell acres of trees, spread pesticides over leaves, and hunt wildlife for sport rather than necessity.” She shakes her head, her eyes sad, “And so, for the safety of the Great Forest, the Council decided to bar humans. They keep a constant perimeter over boundaries. Like with the vines we encountered, or the Guardians.”

He shivers, trying to shake the memory of the fog in his head as a result of coming in contact with the vines. The whispers in his head – echoing’s of his own distraught thoughts. However, despite this, the Council don’t sound  _malicious_  to Finnick. Just cautious and set in their ways.

“Do they have some sort of grudge with the nymphs?” He asks, an idea forming along the edges of the puzzle they’ve found themselves in.

“Not that I know of.” She frowns, “The only conflict I can recall is just the fact that they stopped the human men from coming in.”

“Is it safe to say that they have the best interest for everyone in the Great Forest at heart?” He asks, “That they wouldn’t have intentionally put hundreds of nymphs to death with no way to save themselves?”

She doesn’t answer, just watches him, her eyebrows knit and hung upset over her eyes. He can’t tell if she’s upset with him or the world. Nonetheless, he presses on.

“I think we need to visit them.” He says, “I think they  _know_  the missing link here.”

She’s shaking her head before he even finishes the thought, moving from under his hand with the movement. “No, Finnick.  _No._ They will not take kindly to you being here.”

“Then we ask them to make an exception for me to stay.” He says it so quickly he doesn’t even realize the percussions of what he’s saying before they’re out. Her face goes blank with shock.

“For you to stay.” She repeats, quiet. Her voice in awe.

“Annie I –” He pauses, weighing what he’s even trying to say at this point. He sighs, “I have no where else to go.”

_Where else can I go?_

Getting to District Thirteen seems as likely as making it to another planet at this point. He can’t go back to Panem – they’ll kill him. No, Snow will pluck his feathers one by one; find something that makes Finnick tick and use it to crucify him.

And  _then_  they’ll kill him.

It’s a fate that’s worse than what any ethereal council could have planned for at the sight of him.

A hand find it’s way on his cheek, and Annie’s fingers work to gently turn his head to face her. Her expression is soft, but determined, and her hand is hot against his face. All at once, it’s an exclamation without words.  _Live with me. Stay with me. Be with me._

He’d thought this through once before, back in the Colony. When the prospect of making his way through this world felt much more  _assuring_ than anything else. _  
_

“We need to visit the Council, Annie,” He murmurs, his cheek rising against her hand, “We need them to hear us out.”

He watches her chew her cheek, weighing it out. She doesn’t speak for a long time. He allows her the courtesy of thinking it through.

“Okay.” She says finally, her hand slipping from his cheek. “We will ask them for you to stay and if there’s any way to save the Colony without harming anyone else.”

All of this talk of home and Panem and councils and vines has tugged at a kink in the framework that Finnick had been ignoring up until this point. Of course, the voices whispered to him over and over while running from the vines. Affirmations of his guilt for running from his mistakes.

_You killed Mags._

He sighs, moves his hand from her shoulder to hug around himself.

“There is one thing, though.” He murmurs and she tilts her head curiously. “Before I…came here? I guess?” He shakes his head, “Before the Queen found me, I was running from my world. And I left someone behind. Someone important to me.”

There’s a small part of him that knows Mags isn’t in District 4 anymore. That she has been chosen for the games. But there’s a larger part of him that knows he couldn’t settle down here without  _knowing_ for sure.

If he could save her as well, it’s worth the risk.

He looks to Annie now, and notices a knot of confusion on her face. She doesn’t say anything for a while, but then, quietly she asks. “Who is she?”

There’s an added flavor to her voice, a certain  _tilt_ that Finnick picks up easily, from his time flirting around social politics in the Capitol. It’s a tone that dangled from the smartly dressed women like their pearl necklaces, wooed by his charm and empty of affection because of their husband’s new mistress. From arms strewn around his neck and side glances and whispers to the collar of his shirt:  _“Do you see him over there, with that whore? Make sure he sees us.”_

_Ah._

“Her name is Mags, and she’s like a mother to me.” He says, softly. A clarification. He resists the flooding urge to take one of her hands, knotted together in her lap, into his.

She doesn’t speak, but her expression feels lighter, more relieved, so he continues, “Annie, I can’t settle down here knowing she’s in danger. That she’s left behind without me.” He feels like glass as he asks, “Is there any way we could bring her here, to live?”

She wiggles, uncomfortable under the guise of it all. It’s a lot to ask – just moments before, she was adamant that they don’t approach the Council at all. He tramples the urge to keep talking, to  _will_ her to continue with his sweet convincing. To use soft voices, and effortless flirtation to woo her to his side – like he would while hunting secrets in rich Capitolites beds.

It’s a sour instinct and he wrinkles his nose, stamping it down in disgust. They’re dirty tactics and Annie isn’t a Capitol woman. Instead, he waits, trusting in her decision.

“I don’t know if the Council would let us go back to your world and return with her.” Annie says, slowly, and his heart sinks for a moment. She continues. “We’d need to have her with us when we ask permission. Which means we should go and get her before we approach the Council.”

He blinks, and then what she said sinks in completely and the grin that spreads over his face has potential to light rooms. Now he  _does_  take her hands in his own. They tremble slightly - whether from being under his scrutiny or from the bravery it’s taking to make the decision to go – but he holds them firm while she watches.

“It won’t be easy, Finnick.” She says, quickly, eyes trained on their entwined hands as if it were a curious sight. “We’d need some help from Izzie to cross the barrier, all the while keeping out of the Council’s eyes in the meantime but I –” She pauses, takes a breath, “I can tell you really care about this woman. And if it’s important enough for you to go get her, then it’s important enough for me too.” At the last bit her eyes catch his own, a small smile on her lips.

It makes his heart stutter a moment; a confusing thing. But he returns the smile nonetheless, shaking their hands up and down, as if completing a business transaction. And the glee of it wears down a little bit to emerge a stronger reminder. One Finnick hadn’t planned on ever since this whole crazy thing had started.

He was willingly going back to Panem.

* * *

 

Annie fell asleep in the crook of his elbow shortly after they made their plan to heist Mags from Panem, her hair strewn out beyond the pillow like a satin pillowcase. Finnick hadn’t realized she was sleeping until she was, going still under his arm, the soft plume of her breath ghosting over his collarbone.

In between thoughts of Mags and returning to Panem, he had difficulty falling back asleep, though the allure of sleep sat like a rock in his chest and made his eyes weighted. He’ll pay for it in the morning, when they started their journey.

But now he was hyperaware of her there, nestled against his side, and new thoughts kept him up at the sight of it.

Though he hadn’t realized it at the time Finnick had, in few words, admitted to wanting to stay here –  _with_  her.

It’s not really too surprising: if Finnick was anything, it was someone who followed loyalty. She had left her dying home for him. Ran from rock monsters for him. Tangled in dangerous vines and willed to seek out a psychic witch for him.

_For him._

And now, tangled together in bedding on aforementioned psychic’s floor, he was beginning to see what that “for him” was doing to her.

In sleep, her face puckered into a frown, worry creasing her brow. She held her hands up against her chest, dancing under the crook of her chin. Even in sleep, she was distraught. He wonders what she talked about with Izzie before returning and waking him.

He hadn’t heard Izzie enter the room until she was upon their makeshift nest, like a shadow on the wall, watching them from above. Perched on her shoulder, sat a raven, teetering precariously around the dots of mushrooms stuck to her skin. Finnick tensed, his arms swallowing Annie a little tighter.

With a tiny shake of her head and a knowing smile, Izzie ghosted through the archway deeper into the bowels of the cabin, winking out, as if she were a mirage.


	12. Chapter 12

Finnick has been standing on the beach for a very, very long time.

It might have been hours. It might have been days. Time ebbs and flows into one singular object that he has no want for.

At least, not since he returned from yet another mandatory trip to the Capitol. 

Since he's been back, he has sort of meandered through the rooms in his home like a corpse, in a stupor that comes with the drugs and drink they pumped through him for his stay. He doesn't remember much about it, really. Just pacing through his rooms like it was the first time he was seeing them. 

He remembers, vaguely, standing in the middle of his kitchen, staring at the phone on the wall, wondering if he's ever used it at all. Perhaps the sun set and rose again through the small bay window by the countertop. At some point he must have made it outside, because now the surf laps at his feet like excited dogs.

The only reason he noticed he was even out here was because now he's found himself folded in half, bent over to retch into the sand.

He hasn't eaten in a long time, and it's painful and all that comes up is a simple dribble that washes away while the tide slowly recedes. He watches the ocean water swirl. Long strips of brackish seaweed dance through the foam and get caught in his toes.

_Mermaid hair._ That's what the fishermen call this brand of seaweed.

What his father called it.

His view of the floor pitches; tilts on its axis. It's probably not from the drugs – those seemed to have worn down hours ago. Or days ago. Weeks ago? It's hard to determine where the pills and his numbness clash. The boarders are fuzzy and in descript. He used to care, at some point.

Now they're just different sides of the same coin.

It's hot. He  _knows_  it's hot. Its mid afternoon in the brunt of the summer in District 4, when temperatures climb so high people have been known to collapse on the street from heat exhaustion.

But he feels so, so cold.

He shivers, his hands clutching his knees, the sea wind pushing his unbuttoned shirt out behind him like a cape. It's a bold printed thing – all crazy floral patterns and outlandish colors, an obvious product of the Capitol. He didn't bother to change out of it when he came home. He didn't bother to change at all.

Dusts of Capitol manufactured glitter glint across the backs of his hands. His face feels heavy, compact with the garish makeup his design team packs on a day-to-day basis.

He sinks awkwardly to the ground, the sand gritty against his knees, and spoons a handful of salt water. It splashes across his face, and he repeats the rinsing motion over, and over, and over and soon his eyes sting from the salt water and his face feels raw but he can't stop.

The water is cool and forgiving and salt water always,  _always_  heals no matter what so  _heal me, heal me, heal me, please -_

A hand, strong and gentle presses into his shoulder, and it ceases his ravage on his face. His shoulders are soaked, the shirt clinging to his wet skin, and there are bits of wet sand and seaweed on his chest. Finnick looks up at the shadow whose hand sits on his shoulder, and he doesn't have far to look.

The look on Mags face is palpable in worry, irritation, and anger.

He knows the later two aren't aimed at him, but he shrinks under the intensity of it all the same.

"I was wondering when you would get back," is all she says and then, to his shame, she does the arduous task of sinking to the ground next to him. He should have stood up to meet her halfway, he knows how bad her knees are and how difficult getting up and down can get, but he feels frozen in the water, his arms stiff from propping his upper body up.

He also feels  _guilty_ ; it pinches his gut and keeps him paralyzed, unable to look her in the eye. He had been back for a long, long time now. He should have visited her, let her know he was safe and home. Instead he had walked through the motions of being human, his heart pounding but his skin feeling numb as he paced his house like a ghost. 

The thought of attempting to walk the few paces up to Mags house, knock on the door, hold a conversation, have her eyes take in the damage they've done to him...it's exhausting to even consider it. He physically couldn't do it. Couldn't consider it. And she knows that, to an extent, which makes it a little easier.

But still, he feels guilty.

For a while, they're quiet, watching the ocean recede for the day. It's his favorite time of the day. When the sky strips down to orange, and the sun releases its tight hold on the district – the cooler air coming to bring relief to those who've spent the day working under the heat. At some point in his life, what feels like centuries ago, he remembers spending every sunset bobbing in his father's fishing boat. Watching the ocean turn orange then dark blue and then black around him.

His mother used to yell at him for it. She didn't like the idea of him tying the boat back up on the docks in the dark by himself, scared he'll slip and drown with no one around to help.

It seemed silly to him at the time. He could swim better than any fish. The thought of drowning was so far down on his list of things that could kill him; it sat  _just under_  "death from stubbing his toe."

But now, far too late in the game, he understands it: the gut wrenching fear of loss. The irrationality that comes with worrying over the ones you love. Fear didn't need to have a good enough reason, it could exist just fine on its own.

He  _gets it._

He wishes she were here to tell her he was sorry for making her worry.

"I should have come to see you." He says. His voice is a croak – the misuse and dryness of his tongue shriveling his words. He's not sure who he's talking to, but he decides to direct it to Mags, because she's alive and real and right here next to him. "I'm sorry."

"I should have come to see you." She repeats. Not to mock, but to give her own apologies.

He shakes his head. He was a robot. He didn't want her to see him like that. But she knows that. That's why she didn't come, but instead waited to let him coax himself outside, to the water.

She knows no matter how bad it gets Finnick will always, always return to the ocean.

"It was a birthday party." He says, suddenly. She never asked why he left. She never does. But he needs to tell someone. Someone needs to know the ridiculousness of it all, how wrapped up in it all he's become. "Some political figure."

This is the second time in a month he's been summoned; he had barely washed away the numbness from the previous trip before they took him for another week. It doesn't take much these days to whisk him away. Birthday parties. Manufactured Capitol holidays that the public sets up to get out of work for a day.

He was a party favor.

The worst was last year's games. Not even a full year as a Victor, and they pulled him back in to the mix of it. He didn't need to mentor, thankfully, but he was still expected to roam the banquets and give halfhearted interviews. They really enjoyed milking his victory as the youngest to ever win the games, all the while turning around to entertain the general public while the tributes for his district died not even three days later.

She doesn't respond, but her silence speaks more distaste than anything she could have said ever will. That was the beauty of Mags – her quiet nature speaks volumes. She moved through life with few words and garnished respect as she went. Sometimes, Finnick wished he was like that too. Maybe if he didn't rely so much on smooth talk and charismatic social filler in the games, he wouldn't  _be here_  right now. Instead, he's trapped in this loop.

"It doesn't ever get easier." He says, pitifully. He sinks back onto his butt, spreading his feet apart and sinking his head between his knees. Two years, and he feels like this? Like it's the very first time? Like it's been just days since his family was killed because he made the mistake of saying  _"no"?_

Ghosts of hands feel slimy on his skin. They have been there since he returned; he feels them like burn marks. There had been so many rooms in the house they brought him to. They ushered him through them all, unending, never ending. An infinity of rooms.  _Who needs this many rooms?_  he thought, as they pulled him through them like cattle.  _Who needs this many rooms for so much destruction?_

He's hyperventilating, and he knows he is, because Mag's hand is gentle on his lower back, coaxing his breathing to even out. It wisps out in puffs until he gets a hold of it again, slowing it to the sound of the edge of the water pushing and pulling.

It's comforting to feel her palm so steady on his back. It's also terrifying.

For a long, long time after they killed his family, he refused to let her in. It was a guilty year; she had mentored him, and thus saved his life, but he couldn't even stand being the same room as her. But it was never personal - back then he refused to let anyone in. Should he find his footing to standup to Snow again, he wanted to make sure he had no vice the president could use against him.

It was simple: he couldn't kill anyone Finnick loved if Finnick loved no one.

But Mags knew his game. She wormed his way into her heart with baked bread and phone calls for errand runs, and times like this: sitting on the beach in the mess of it all, with her strong and stable as any light house.

It was hopeless for the orphan to not fall under the shadow of a mother figure who was determined to be just that: a parent.

That, and it was incredibly  _hard_  to hate Mags. All the tributes of District 4 loved her; the entire district loved her. She was mother to all, stern and affectionate and a good shoulder to cry on. But all this  _especially_  to Finnick: the youngest winner of the Hunger Games, her charismatic, charming mentee.

She was the  _only one_  who didn't see him as a slut for the Capitol.

Sometimes Career Victors fell for the Capitol. Though they could never live there - it was absolutely forbidden for anyone in the districts to live in the city Victor or not - they were obviously favorites of the city's citizens. The Victors who charmed audiences during their games, and as a result were brought into the city year after year for celebrations and parties after they've won. Friends of the Capitol.

All of Panem, Finnick included before winning the games himself, figured they had sold themselves out. That fame of winning got their head; betrayal after killing the district's own children and then flaunting their status for the Capitol. They were whispered about, never in a pleasant light. Those Victors were not respected. To the district, they were as respected as Capitol citizens. Finnick could never understand why Victors would want to dedicate their life praising a city that threw kids in an arena to fight to death for entertainment.

And then he won, and President Snow used his natural charisma and boyish good looks that he played up to get sponsors in the games against him.

And then suddenly he  _was_  one of those Victors; the kind that use the luxuries of the Capitol, a slap in the face to all the dead tributes who were not so lucky or even given the chance. Whispers of his sleazy prowling on his trips to the Capitol somehow leaked into the district, perhaps by his fellow Victors who sometimes made the trips with him, and then all of Panem knew. He was a womanizer at fifteen, whore at sixteen.

_And they all thought it was by choice._

He couldn't do anything to change their minds. He was forbidden to talk about Snow's forceful actions, about the "deal" they had made that sold his body, his freedom, and cost him his family. That was what killed his family. What almost killed  _him._

But Mags knew. He never told her, but she knew. And it's in the moments where he feels utterly and unshakably  _alone_  the knowledge that at least one person isn't against him is enough to keep him going.

"Tomorrow's going to be a perfect fishing day." Mags says.

Her comment manages to leech him from his own head, and he sits up to observe what she's saying. Sure enough, the sky bleeds red, the siren song that boasts a day of fair weather. The dock's bars will be empty – the fishermen will start their morning extra early tomorrow.

They sit there a while longer, watching the ocean swallow the rest of the sun, turning the sky a faded pink and then finally a dark, dark blue.

"Well. No sense sitting here in the dark." Mags breathes a sigh. She has difficulty bringing herself to her feet, and Finnick somehow breaks out of his own paralysis to find his own feet, allowing her help that she swats away anyway. "Now, I made too much seafood stew. Would it be too much to ask for you to take some for me?"

"I think that can be arranged." He cracks the first real smile in a long, long time, drapes his arm over her shoulders to pull her in. "Maybe we can crack open one of your folktale books, too. I'm itching for a good story."

They walk together to her house, where he knows he will stay tonight until he finishes thawing out; shedding the layers of a week spent in the direct of Snow. And then, in the morning, he will return to the ocean.

No matter how bad it gets, he will always return.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you are doing well! 
> 
> I just got back from a much needed vacation, where I spent a lot of time by the ocean writing the majority of this chapter (as well as other odesta related projects ;) ) It was really therapeutic - I love the coast!
> 
> I'm hoping to get a few more chapters up for this fic before the fall semester picks up in a few weeks. After that, I have no idea how often I'll be able to update, because this semester is going to be very, very busy for me :( I like to imagine I'll be able to save up some down time to write, but I guess we'll have to see.
> 
> Anywho, thanks for reading, and I'll see you next chapter!

Finnick never thought he'd be as thankful for Izzie's lanky features than he is right now; the shirt she gave him to wear is billowy and long, stretching just beyond his torso. It covers his skin in a way that lifts a weight from his shoulders.

To be wearing clothes again is such a  _relief_.

Though he has never been one to be uncomfortable in his own skin, especially from his years as a forced escort, the constant nudity was starting to wear thin. Trotting through the woods with Annie for the past few days, outside of the Colony where nudity was more of the norm, was beginning to wear him down mentally. 

Now fully dressed, he feels as if he's regained some sort of self-autonomy. It's an intoxicating sort of privacy that never really noticed until it got - quite literally - striped from him.

He and Annie had spent the better part of the late morning after breakfast going over the plan to rescue Mags and seek out the Council. Although a lot of what they were considering would be based on guessing and blind hope, it was another relief to see that the more they talked and planned, Annie's anxieties seemed to wane. Either that or she got better at disguising her hesitation about the Council.

And he understood her hesitance; he wasn't too keen himself on willingly returning to Panem.

Which is why they were dressing up now. If they were going to be tramping through District 4, Finnick insisted it was probably in good taste to put on clothes. 

Though she had agreed, by comparison he notices right off the bat Annie had been hesitant to don her own gifted wardrobe of the same long shirt and billowy pants. He watches her now, as she fingers the sleeves of the shirt, before hesitantly draping it over her head. As she dresses, he tries to keep from laughing, as a much shorter Annie swims in the fabric.

His own wardrobe is tight on the shoulders and triceps, and the bell-like cuffs land just past his elbows, but he figures as long as he can move his arms he'll be okay. In the same fashion, the pants that practically swim on Annie's legs, hugs his skin a little too much for comfort and barely reach beyond his calves. But he's spent ten years in tight, ridiculous fitting Capitol clothing, so he's sure he can manage just fine for now.

She wrinkles her nose when she notices him watching, uncomfortable, struggling to push the sleeves back. They droop down her forearms and tip over her fingertips despite her efforts, and Finnick chuckles.

"Here, let me..." Without really thinking of it, he takes a step forward, shooing her hands away to roll the sleeves up for her. She watches as he quickly cuffs them back, her expression surprised and a little beside herself.

"Thank you." She murmurs, pulling her large eyes up to meet his own.

There's a sudden, palpable kind of emotion that Finnick can't pinpoint in the air; he had felt it drip down his spine the moment she tilted her head up. It's like a power line buzzing beneath his skin, completely foreign and catching him off guard. He also hadn't realized how close the position would put him to her until he'd crossed the distance.

It was silly, how this proximity to her was sending off bells and whistles in his head. They'd spent how many nights now curled beside each other, resting against each other for warmth? His head cradled in her lap, while he spent those single hours in her home, resting?

But there was something  _more_ to such closeness in the daylight – like the buzz he got from grabbing her hand outside Izzie's cottage, or entwining his fingers with hers during the reading. A quaint intimacy that didn't follow suit with what he was used to getting and receiving out of human contact. He was used to pawing hands and greedy fingers; wrapped in thousand dollar sheets with the curtains drawn. There were no soft touches or comforting gestures to ease anxiety – at least, not without a payment for it, and certainly not pointed at him to receive.

Finnick had grown so used to expecting the use of human contact in exchange for payment that it was a surprise to him to receive it wholly out of kindness.

He clears his throat, taking half a step back to give her air and to clear the mess of conflicted feelings brewing in his head. Annie fiddles with her newly rolled cuffs, puckering her lips, her expression now unreadable.

"I don't know how you could do this every day." She grimaces, pinching the front of her shirt and tugging it away from her, creating a barrier of air between her skin and the fabric. "It feels so... _restricting_."

"Trust me, you'll be thankful for it when we're in Four." He says, watching the pout of her frown crease the area between her eyebrows. He blinks, looks to the floor, and starts sorting through the makeshift bed they had on the floor. She bends to help him fold the blankets, stack the pillows.

Her actions are stiff, and he watches as she pauses through the motion of her movements occasionally to adjust to the feeling of her joints trapped in the fabric. He bites his lip to keep from laughing. She looks like one of the tiny purse dogs owned by the Capitol's high society, the kind that get their paws shoved into rain boots or are wrangled into sweaters, making them wobble across the floor, awkward and uncomfortable.

She catches him watching and her sour face frowns deeper as she notices the exertion he's putting into keeping from laughing out loud. It's a fake anger on her face, though, because she laughs along with him when he finally can't keep it at bay.

"Ah, they fit." Izzie's voice makes them jump; she had entered the room in her typical fashion, like an apparition.

"Yes, thank you." Annie says, her voice genuine. "For everything, really. The hospitality you gave us was above and beyond anything we could have asked for."

Izzie simply shrugs and smiles sheepishly, and it's a shockingly human response from her. Annie beams from ear to ear at the sight.

Somewhere in the time between their conversation last night and the next day, the two women had formed camaraderie of sorts. Annie had woken before Finnick, and he had found them together in the kitchen, cooking up a stew from the stock of ingredients Izzie had in her home.

It was a weird sensation, rousing to the smell of cooking food. For a short, confusing moment in his drowsiness he thought he was waking up in Mag's spare bedroom in District 4, the aroma of her cooking seeping up the stairs and into his nose. Then the soft chatter of women mid-conversation and Annie's bell of laughter pulled him to clarity.

When he had meandered into the kitchen, Annie smiled as she served him brewed mint tea and he returned it with one of his own, although his eyebrow cocked quizzically as his eyes trailed after Izzie, her back to them as she ladled out bowls of stew.

The stew was thinly flavored, with some sort of spongy tubers and an array of mushrooms that the two of them had discreetly picked around, unsure where - or  _who -_ they had come from before landing in the soup.

It was during their meal that they worked out the mechanics of their plan and shared it, in bits and pieces, with Izzie. She did not comment or show any sort of opinion one way or another during their reveal, as she ate her stew methodically and with gentle movements. There were moments when Finnick thought she wasn't even listening, but he let Annie do most of the talking, still weary of the clairvoyant. Far be it from him to let his guard down, even though Annie seemed to be on board with sharing anything around the strange woman.

When they finished the gist of it all, Izzie only really had one comment to make of it, and that was to mention that they wouldn't have a difficult time crossing over to Panem.

"You will cross the barrier fairly easily with him." She had tilted her chin in Finnick's direction, bent over her bowl of stew.

"Really?" Annie had replied, her eyes round with surprise.

Izzie nodded. "Oh yes. He is a natural walker." She turned to him, her gaze unrelenting. "I bet you didn't even feel yourself cross over, did you?"

Finnick had frowned, scraping his spoon along the bottom of his bowl. "I wasn't really aware of my surroundings at the time."

In response, the clairvoyant arched an eyebrow at him, and he sighed. "I mean, I fell out of a tree and next thing I knew I was dragged here."

"You definitely had crossed over before the nymphs found you." Izzie clarified. "They cannot cross barriers without a human with them. You must have already found your way here before you had even thought to climb the tree."

Finnick had felt fidgety at that reveal, unsure what to make of the information. He never felt like he'd been in some other fairytale world while climbing the tree; just exhausted and trying to stay alive and out of the grasp of the Capitol. Had he really run himself so far out of Snow's grasp without even realizing it?

He looked to Annie and asked, "You can't cross over?"

She had smiled sadly and shook her head. "No. Nymphs can't leave unless accompanied by a human."

It took him aback, but after a bit of thought, Finnick realized it had made sense. After all, the Colony wouldn't be dying if they could just jump into his world and pick off human men.

"But we'd be able to go back together, though?" He looked between the two, and then settled his gaze back to Annie. "You'll be able to come back with me, right?"

The prospect of going back to District 4 alone had kicked his heart into a manic rhythm and it's a sensation that, looking back, still shocked him. He's not sure how to feel about the fact of it, being so dependent on her that the thought of doing this alone scares him raw.

"Yes. I'll definitely be able to cross if we're going together." She smiled, assuring. She had reached under the table too, grasping his sweaty hand in her own. It instantly stabilized him. He had tried not to dwell on why that was.

After they had ate, Finnick helped Annie packed away a portion of leftovers in a jar with a sealed top, for them to have while back on the road. It was a relieving sight to finally have something of substance to bring along with them; Finnick wasn't sure how much longer he could live off roots, bark, and berries in their travels, amongst the ration of fruit and dried meats Annie and Johanna had packed away in their hurry. They weren't too sure how much longer they'd be rationing off their food supply before making it to Panem – it could take hours to cross over, it could take days.

"You'll have to find a pocket." Izzie had explained. "Areas where the veil is exceptionally thin."

"But I thought I was a...what did you call me?" Finnick wrinkled his nose, thinking. "A 'walker'? Can't I just, like, I don't know...step over?" His voice had tapered off, suddenly self-conscious.

He had no idea what he was talking about or how any of the mechanics of boundary crossing worked. But, based on what Izzie had said earlier, hadn't he just... _jumped_  through worlds without even thinking? How hard could it be?

"You probably could." She agreed, making him feel a little less stupid, and makes a pointed nod towards Annie. "But this time you are traveling through with an extra person, and under a lot less duress in doing so."

"So, what are you saying we should do?" Finnick asked.

"Not much you  _can_ do." Izzie shrugged. "There are beings in the Great Forest that are adept at crossing barriers, but I'm not sure how much help they're willing to give if you happen to find them, especially with the policies put up by the Council regarding humans."

"Your best bet would be to walk until you stumble across a natural pocket." She rose to her feet, then, splaying her hands on the table as she searched the room for something. Moving towards her cabinets, she opened and closed doors and drawers until she found a small vile, in it contained a sap green liquid.

"Here." She said, gently cupping the vile into Annie's palm. "Apply this to the wrists and ankles daily until you cross. It will help keep you on the path and aid in your travels. Once you're ready to come back, pick clover and tuck them in your ears until you travel back."

"She'll be your eyes." Izzie continued, glancing at him.

 _"Me?"_ Annie gasped.

"Yes." Izzie responded, patting the hand that held the vile. "You will feel it the moment you cross."

Whatever that meant, Annie must have understood, because she nodded her head in such a fashion that it made sense.

And thus Finnick had brought up the idea that they probably get dressed, if they were about to venture to his side of things.

"We can't just waltz around in our birthday suits." He had explained. "People will definitely notice, especially since its me. I'm planning to get in and get out as undetected as possible."

"Humans aren't the only ones you need to keep yourself away from." Izzie warned. When she slipped around the corner to fetch their clothes, Finnick turned to Annie in confusion, finding her face contemplative.

"What the hell does  _that_  mean?" He asked. "Like, as in the Council?"

"She's just being cautious." Annie's gaze had flit towards him and then back the way Izzie disappeared, her lips pressed in a straight line, her fist flexing tighter around the vile in her hand. 

When she noticed him looking at it, she had smiled and offered him for a closer look. The liquid inside is tinted soft green, like a tea, and he tipped it back and forth to watch the waterline swirl around the glass. Popping off the corked top, he sniffed curiously.

"It's probably steeped comfrey root and rosemary." She explained. "Safe traveling and mental clarity."

"Safe traveling, and cautious psychic." He had lifted an eyebrow. "What exactly is your stupid human getting you into?"

Annie had chewed her lip, her eyes brightening. Finnick still can't stop replaying the phrase  _"your stupid human"_  over and over in his head. It was a slip of the tongue, really. He's not sure what he meant by it.

"There are...beings in the Great Forest that we just need to keep an eye on." Annie shrugged, slipping the vile back from his open palm. "Humans tend to bring them out of the woodwork. It's like Izzie's said, they can feel you from a mile away." She smirked. "You've got all of our attention, one way or another."

"So just keep watch for any mythological people who want to adopt me into their dying clan?" He joked. "Can't say I have the best track record of that, but you live and you learn."

She had laughed, and it stirred around his chest, and he had realized for a brief moment that he wanted to bottle the sound up in a vile of his own. He wanted to work to re-create the sound as often as he could. It was a freeing need. He was used to giving humor to dissolve difficult situations and keep the peace between easily angered customers. His humor was his charm and his charm, like many other parts of himself, was used as a commodity. 

There was really only one other person in his life who he had wanted to use his humor for a genuine, happy reaction, and that person was Mags. And even still, it was different than the way he wanted to make Annie happy. He wanted to make Annie happy just to watch the way her smile lit up her face and kicked in the green flecks of her eyes. 

Annie's smile made his heart flop in a deliciously pleasant way. 

Once they had finished cleaning and packing away any trace of their stay in her living room, and it was time to leave, Izzie had walked with them down the path away from her home. 

As the image of her squat house fades away, Finnick feels convinced it was never there to begin with. He shivers, eager to rid himself of the strange energy in the swamp. It was easier to forget he was in a mythological forest with Annie and the nymphs – they weren't so hooked on the idea of being mystically unnerving like Izzie was.

When they stop to part ways and say their goodbyes, Izzie pushes Annie's hair behind her ears affectionately and straightens it out over her shoulder. It strikes Finnick as something that longtime friends would do, not an estranged swamp psychic and sheltered nymph girl who had just met the day prior. But then again, Annie had a way of worming herself into people's hearts.

"Safe travels, Singer." Izzie says quietly. "I'll be keeping an eye out for the reverberations of your actions."

 _No pressure, though,_ Finnick thinks duly. Nonetheless, if Annie finds the clairvoyant's declaration a daunting task, she doesn't show it as she smiles warmly at the woman in front of her and nods.

"And you." Izzie says, turning to Finnick. "You'll figure out soon enough that running won't help anyone. Don't be compliant, though, once you finally stop." She tilts her head, looking him up and down.

"Your victory will not define you anymore." She concludes, tone serious, and a shiver creeps up his spine. He shifts their travel bag higher on his shoulder, unnerved. This was the second time that this person from a whole other world showed that she knew about his past; she knew about the games that have ruined his life.

"I did a small search this morning." Izzie continues, turning to Annie. "Today you will want to head north, the veil feels thin in that direction."

"Thank you, Izzie." Annie says. "Again. For everything."

The clairvoyant nods, her expression calm. 

Shortly after, a crow flies overhead, screaming like a shooting star through the rows of beech trees. The three of them watch its form disappear, and when Finnick turns back around, Izzie is gone.

* * *

 According to Annie, the crow had taken off in the direction they needed to go: north. After Izzie's abrupt (and incredibly unnerving) departure, they spent a few moments patting their wrists and the back of their necks with the liquid from the vile, and then begin trail after the bird. It takes a few miles to breach themselves from the thick, swampy biosphere, but once they do, they walk straight into thick, tropical forest. Humidity hits them like a brick wall – the air wet and heavy. It reminds him of home.

"So is the Great Forest like...sectioned off?" Finnick asks a mile into the thicket, swatting mosquitos off. He had taken off his shirt to drape it over his sweaty shoulders, and he has to pick his knees up high to avoid tangling his ankles in vines. After narrowly avoiding being sent into a psychotic break at the whim of evil vines just days prior, he's weary of most of the vegetation here. "Because just yesterday we were walking through a normal pine forest, but now it just feels like I'm in the midst of a rainforest."

It felt like he was sitting in one of the Capitol's trains, winding through the entirety of Panem. Sandy coastline with fat-leaved plants melting into thick pine trees morphing into vast fields and valleys – a dizzying, un-grounding affect that's happening at 70 miles per hour. At least with the train, the air remains consistent and the geography of the places they visit at least make sense with the map of Panem. On foot like this, the Great Forest feels massive and uncomfortably diverse. "How big  _is_  this place?"

"It breaks down into sections of different forest." Annie says. "I'm not sure how large it is, though. I don't know if anyone knows the answer to that."

"Some think it doesn't really have an end." Annie continues softly, when he doesn't respond. "They believe it grows every day, expanding."

He whistles. "That's crazy." He wonders what it would be like to live in a place without borders. To keep walking without coming to means to an end. Finnick thinks about how things are segmented here, but in the way Panem is broken apart – no one owns any of the segments. There are no districts of enslaved populations. People like Izzie, borne from nomadic backgrounds, and allowed to live off the land as she pleases. It's a sobering thought. It's something he wants so desperately it makes his heart sink and soar all at once.

 _I'm coming for you, Mags._ He thinks.  _And then we'll be able to have something we've never had before: freedom._

They're quiet again as they continue their walk, and Finnick doesn't push for more conversation. Annie had explained a little while earlier that she was concentrating on the energy of the area – seeking out the thin points, like Izzie had instructed them to do. He doesn't feel a thing but the humidity on his skin, but he's quiet as he clears out paths in the thick vegetation while she concentrates, a line forming on her forehead.

At some point in the afternoon when they stumble upon a small brook, they decide to stop to refill their water supply, rest, and eat a bit of the left over stew. It's not as appetizing lukewarm, but neither of them complain. It's hot in the jungle part of the Great Forest, and though the thick canopy of trees blocks out the rays of sunlight from landing on their skin, the heat gets trapped between the leaves leaving the rest of the forest to simmer down below. Finnick refills the water canteen Annie had packed for them, and they pass it back and forth, taking small sips between bites of food.

Annie looks drained as she eats. It's probably hard work, searching out the gaps in the magic of this place. She had talked to him briefly about the connections of things here – how the forest whispers to her. He wonders if that's the same as actively seeking out energy, or if the connection things is more of an instinctual thing. Mostly, Finnick wonders idly if he could try lightening her load, since he feels somewhat useless.

"You and Izzie," he begins, "you kept mentioning  _feeling_ the energy of this place. What does it feel like?"

She lowers the canteen, her face concentrating as she tries to put words together.

"It's like..." She pauses, her eyes dancing around for the right way to explain it. "It's kind of like, when you're going up and down a hill, that weight on your shoulders that shifts. It's heavy on your whole body."

"So, when you're looking for pockets you feel what, exactly?" He asks. "A lightness?"

She nods, smiling tiredly. "It's small, though, and half the time I don't even notice it. Like I've shut that sense off to focus on more important things." She sighs, wrinkling her nose in frustration. "It's a process that comes much more easily to Izzie, I'm sure."

Finnick settles on the knowledge, and once they wrap up their lunch break and start walking again, he tries to hone in on whatever it is she's feeling as he continues to weed out the thicket for a pathway. It's easier, now that he has some sort of idea of where to go with it, and once or twice he thinks he feels  _something_ , before it flitters away. At first he was sure he was just imagining it – his poor brain trying to give him something to work with, like a mirage. But when the feeling passes by, Annie shifts gradually herself, moving their path around the sensation, it leads him to believe he's feeling spikes of whatever it is she's looking to avoid.

He was right, however, about it being draining work. His legs feel heavier, and the chopping motion of his arms through the thicket get slower and slower the more they press on.

Everything in him lights up, however, when they stumble into a small clearing in the midst of the jungle. The field of grass and small flowers instantly feels misplaced; like something you'd find in a whole other environment, and not in the middle of a rainforest. Some sort of sense in Finnick rings warning bells at him as they walk through it and he locks eyes with the object dead center of the field – a ring of mushrooms.

"Oh no." Annie says, and they barely have time to soak it in, when two small figures dance themselves into view. It was an odd, misplaced motion that his brain struggles to make sense of: one minute they weren't there, the next they were. It was like his mind was scrambling to fix the gap between the moment of nothing and then  _them._

Finnick assumes "them" to be a boy and girl, no taller than three feet apiece, their features delicate and unearthly. Large, round eyes take up the majority of their face, and wisps of fabric fall from their bodies. They remind Finnick instantly of the whimsical illustrations of pixies that were dog-eared in Mag's mythology books. The warning bells ring louder at their presence.

"A nymph." The boy crows. "A nymph dressed as a human with a human who wants to live like the nymphs."

"If you dress like them you become one of them." The girl declares, her large, black eyes sinking in the sight of them. Finnick resists the urge to shiver when she locks them onto him, scooping up and down. Her pixie face is ethereal and  _alien_  – nothing like the girls from the Colony. She was so obviously something other, and the knowledge of it rises goosebumps on his arms and stands the hair up on the back of his neck.

"Will you dance with us?" She asks him, and it doesn't sound like a request. He suddenly feels compelled, however, to take up her offer.

"I'm sorry," Annie says softly before he gets the chance to do anything, "we can't. But I can give you a song to dance to, if you would like."

The female clicks her tongue, pondering the offer. She taps her foot and strokes her chin while her partner rests his hands on her shoulders to lean close, and coos softly in her ear while she thinks, unperturbed.

"That sounds fair." She finally relents. "But it should be a song I've never heard before. Those are  _always_  the most fun to dance to."

"You can dance any way you like to a new song!" The boy agrees, his features lighting up, as he drapes himself over her. She pushes back, knocking him into one of the fungi to their right. He laughs, stumbling drunk, and claps a hand around her thin arm, pulling her with him until she's fumbling through the grass after him. It takes Finnick a moment to realize that it's a dance, and not uneven ground or misplaced footsteps, that propel them knocking around the mushroom ring like pinballs.

"I'll need some music." Annie challenges, hands on her hips, and even though he feels the need to join them in their movements, he wonders why she's bothering to entertain them.

"Can't you hear it?" The boy shouts, panting with the effort of throwing his partner around and catching her in the knick of time. She falls with minute trust, draping herself over his arm and twirling with her eyes closed. "It's all around us! How  _delightful!"_

That's when things start to get eerie.

As soon as the pixie boy points out the music, the buttery crescendo of it rises in Finnick's ears, like a mosquito that's flown too close to his face. The strings pluck themselves from the shaking leaves and the brass jingle floats through the grass, as if plucked from the ground. He pulls his gaze from the dancing pixies – why was it suddenly so difficult to look away? – to throw a cautious glance at Annie. Her face is pale, her head cocked to the side, as if hearing it, too.

She tests out the beats, her head bobbing against the rises and falls of the melody. She watches the pixies float around the circle, faster, faster, their movement's hectic but in perfect rhythm to the instrumentals.

Eventually, after testing the waters, she dips her foot in and opens her mouth to sing.

He's not sure if it's the spell that the pixies have started putting him in, or Annie's raw talent, but he's dumbfounded as she matches the melody with a haunting one of her own. She sings about willow trees and honeysuckle and a forest of animals at war with each other, and the pixies continue their manic dance, round, and round, and round, and his head swims.

Finnick's feet move on their own accord, and his toe nudges the boundary between himself and the ring before Annie's arm darts out across his chest, cutting him off from movement. He casts a glance in her direction, and her eyes are wide, like the pixies as she takes him in. The music from her lips never waiver, but she slowly shakes her head at him as she sings.

He's straining against her hand now, his body willing him to join the pixies in their circling movements, if only just for a bit. She slips her left arm from the front of his chest to loop the both of them around his bicep, pulling him against her side. She's taught, quivering under whatever sort of energy is being dispelled from the music, the dancing, the pixie's manic giggling as they spin...

It goes on for some time, and in waves he pulls against her restraints, like a boat knocking against a dock. Her voice is heady and melodic, and the more he listens the more he slips against the satin of it, until he feels completely drunk in it, and it scares him a little. This is different then the time she sang to kick of the Colony's nights of debauchery – sure, her voice was pretty and sweet at the time, but it doesn't hold a candle to the song she's singing now.

Her voice holds in it the same stuff of the elixir the Queen used to pour down his throat - sticky and clinging to his psyche and blurring out the edges.

She challenges the mood of the tune playing in the air, and manages to wrap it around her finger, and distort it however she likes. That must have been the window she's been looking for, because once she finds confident control, she starts to slow the dance. The pixies slow their circles, no longer a blur of tiny arms and legs, and she tappers the music off, low and final.

The music fades with Annie's voice, and Finnick feels a little bit more in control, albeit a bit wobbly on his feet. He feels drained, too, like whatever energy he had stored has been zapped out of him.

The pixies stop in their tracks, falling against each other in a panting heap, their eyes shut as their chests pull in air.

Annie pants, too, and starts to sag against him. He uses their entwined arms to help prop her upright, and she casts him a thankful glance, a thin smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes: a sign that the danger hasn't fully passed. He tenses and watches the pixies scramble drunkenly to their feet, twirling again until they found equal footing outside of the fairy ring.

"That was fast!" The boy exclaims, almost accusatory.

"Much too fast!" The girl agrees, eyeing Finnick with an unreadable expression.

"That was the first song I could think to sing." Annie explains, defensive beneath he sweetness. Her normal, speaking voice feels peppered with something  _extra._ It makes the blood under Finnick's skin start pumping, raising goosebumps on his arms. Possibly an aftereffect of...whatever the hell had just happened a few moments ago.

"Have you thought of any others since then?" The girl asks and Annie shrugs, noncommittal, although her jaw his tense under their saucer-like gaze.

"Not yet. But I'll try to return if I do." Annie says quietly.

"I suppose that's good." The boy sighs, pouting like a child.

"We'll keep an eye out if you do, human-nymph." The girl says, and the boy reaches to take her hand, but she swats it away. At her dismissal he encircles his arms around her, twirling her away with a giggle so high in range it sounds like squeaking mice.

Annie starts to tug Finnick away. "Have a splendid evening, and thank you for the dance."

"Til' we meet again, Singer!" The boy calls, and Annie seems to relax as she pulls Finnick down the path, away, away until the dancing pixies disappear like a mirage.

The other side of the meadow greets them to forests of pine and redwood. Large, towering monsters that Finnick couldn't seem to recall seeing from the other side of the meadow. How quickly the shift in biomes makes him dizzy. His brain feels foggy, and Annie's hand is firm as she tugs him along.

Eventually, she deems it safe enough to stop, squatting down beside a pinecone the size of Finnick's forearm.

"Are you okay?" Annie asks, and though she's not singing, her tone feels so buttery and soft that Finnick's head swims, drunk in the sound of it. He sways a minute, his eyes closed, lingering on the bell of it in his own head until he realizes she had asked him a question.

"I  _think_  so." He says. "What the hell was that?"

"Fairy ring." She responds, apologetic and angelic in tone. He swims through her voice. "It's impolite to refuse them, but you cannot dance with them. You'll never be able to leave."

"Your voice sounds  _so nice_." He says and sighs in the knowledge of it. "Like...so nice. It's dizzying."

Her cheeks dust pink and she sighs, sadly. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, as if trying to keep her words to herself. "That will wear off soon, I promise. I'm sorry, I didn't know what else to do."

"Mmm." He hums, overcome from her words. He feels like he's drank a whole bottle of spirits, just by himself, but  _better_ still. His joints feel billowy and loose – like honey. Her voice is  _so pretty._ He wants to dance in them. Twirl and spin and waltz like the pixies did.

"I think they took some of your essence." Annie says. "It's probably still lingering in my voice, too. Whatever charm they've used. I'm so sorry, I didn't know what else to do."

"You don't need to apologize. I feel  _great_  actually." He assures her, and starts to work his way back to his feet but she tugs him back down, settling him so his back sits propped against a tree.

"You feel great  _until_  it wears off in a about an hour, and then you'll be exhausted." She explains. "Try to sit still until it all passes. We should probably start to make camp soon, anyway." 

He sways to her words, his own personal orchestra with her syllables. He's not really making much sense of what her words mean, more so just reveling in the sound of it. It feels weighty on his limbs; if only he could shake it  _off._ Maybe if he just stretched a little moved a little danced a little...

He tries to get up again, but she presses him back down.

"Please don't." She whispers, barely loud enough. It gets lost to the wind. She presses her lips in a tight line. "I shouldn't talk anymore."

She doesn't utter a word as she coaxes some water from the canteen into him. When the initial urge to dance passes, and the bell of her voice finishes ringing around his head, they spend a little time walking to find a water source to camp at for the night. He feels incredibly heavy by the time they stumble upon a rushing riverbed. Zapped of energy, he can barely stand, and she helps him lower himself to the pine-needle floor.

The last thing he recalls before the heaviness of his eyelids pull him down into sleep is Annie's fingers, pushing his hair off of his forehead as his cheek rests in her lap.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> Not much to say here, just wanted to give a quick update within an update as to the status of this story.  
> I'll be starting my (hopefully) last year on campus in a lil over a week from now, and juggling two jobs and 6 classes will probably kill me. So with that said, after this chapter one of two things could happen: either a full blown hiatus will take place until winter break relinquishes the hell grip university will have on my suffering soul, or I'll do very sparse updates here and there.
> 
> (There's also the possibility I'll kick myself into gear and stick with a consistent upload schedule, so let's hope for that one because why not? Goals are important and all that.)
> 
> I WILL NOT give up on this story though - it's my baby and I want to see it to the end. So do with that what you will, I suppose.
> 
> Anyway, thank you guys so much for all the positive support and feedback I've gotten for this fic! I just cannot believe it? I appreciate it all so much, so thank you!
> 
> Happy reading!

As morning light slingshots through the trees in thick, golden chords, Finnick is still fast asleep.

They were going on day two of Finnick's unconscious state since running into the Fae folk, and Anneyce would be worried if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, like a reassuring metronome.

She had spent the day prior letting him rest as she prepped their camp for what she would assume to be a somewhat extended stay. They had landed themselves into a biome of towering redwood trees; setting camp up next to a trio of the monstrous conifers, settling in the nook they created, like a natural tent. Directly ahead of them, a small river cuts through the paths of the giants as if parting the forest, and winks under the steady growing morning light.

Anneyce had used the first day of Finnick's slumbering to prep and start a fireplace, and took stock of their remaining food supply, attempting to scour the circumference of the area for more. She was pleased to find a relatively large berry bush not too far from camp, and a peak over the bank of the river showed the darting bodies of medium sized trout, should they need something of more sustenance.

Coming up on day two, sitting beneath the tree-tent with Finnick's steady breathing beside her, Anneyce was still kicking herself over the whole encounter. Even though he appeared to have made it out relatively in-tact, she should have been more thoughtful of her actions.

She had been vigilant of fairy rings while in Izzie's swamp, because the likelihood of one surrounded by those groves of mushrooms was inevitable. But she had let her guard down the further they went, and as they exited the clairvoyant's territory she figured they were in the clear.

And then they had  _walked right up_  to one.

Anneyce sits beside his sleeping form, her back propped against the biting bark of one of the trees. His face is peaceful in sleep, but she frowns at the sight of it all the same. He was too vulnerable here. She was supposed to be looking after him, but had failed multiple times; first with the vines, and now  _this_. She had been too focused on finding weakened barriers that she wasn't paying attention to what was right in front of them.

_It could have been worse._

In the pressure of the moment, she had tried to navigate the handful of rules that followed when interacting with the Fae folk. She was polite, she made sure they didn't exchange names, they didn't swap clothes, and neither of them received a gift or ate anything of theirs.

But her main goal was to keep Finnick from entering the ring, for once he started dancing there was nothing that would stop him. He would dance until his feet were stumps, or he died from exhaustion. 

And she had been fighting her own desire to join as well. Though the call was not as strong as it was for Finnick, she knows if she had stepped foot in the ring herself, she wouldn't have had the power to save both of them.

It really could have been  _incredibly_  worse.

But she left them with a song, and had been so dizzy in her exhilaration of it all she made the mistake of thanking them for the dance – a gesture that could lead to more trouble later. Saying "thank you" to Fae folk only meant that you'd owe them for something later down the line. That, piled on top of the fact they had mentioned that they would be keeping an eye out for another song, only reads trouble for Finnick and herself at a distant point.

She can't do anything now but keep a sharper eye out, for the both of them.

Anneyce spends most of the morning sitting with Finnick, stewing in her stupid mistakes, but by the time afternoon rolls around she decides she needs to get up and do something productive. She tries not to wake him as she rises, weary of disturbing him from sleep, not sure what kind of state he'd be in if she interrupted his body's natural way of fending off the remnants of the Fae encounter.

Starting up another fire, she set to work boiling the river water out of a tin can Izzie had given them, to save for drinking later. While the fire crackles and the can begins to heat up, she takes to the river, balancing herself over the large, slick rocks along the bed. The current is gentle against her legs, and she hikes the cuffs of her pants up in frustration, trying to keep them from soaking. She had learned early on that, though already deeply uncomfortable and restricting while dry,  _wet_ clothes only amplified the unpleasantness on skin.

Eventually, she gets so frustrated that she strips them off, rolls them into a ball, and tosses them towards the shore, careful to keep them from landing in the water. The long shirt hems just above her knees in a makeshift dress, but it was already miles easier to work with the new arrangement. Balancing on the balls of her feet, she keeps as still as possible, bent at the knees and hovering inches over the water, waiting.

It takes a little while, but she manages to catch a trout and toss it to shore, wincing while she does. She hates taking a life like that, but while she can live off of a relatively vegetarian diet a lot longer than this, she knows as a human, Finnick relies on a lot more protein. Besides, there wasn't much in the way for sustenance in the vegetation of the ever changing forest – it was hard to live strictly off of roots, bark, berries, and whatever meager fruit they stumble across.

Anneyce missed the community garden back home. She missed tomatoes, and cucumbers, and squash, digging up golden potatoes, and bell peppers so big they tumbled from her arms while she carried them to the grocer's space, the large "market" the nymphs would use to shop for their produce. She missed morning tea with Johanna, and honey, and the peaches picked from the tree behind Johanna's house.

She missed  _home_.

But at the same time, with a backward glance at the sleeping human yards away, she didn't. She didn't want to go back yet, not if it meant Finnick wasn't safe. And mulling that fact over, something settles the homesickness in her heart. The pang isn't as strong.

She gets into the rhythm of fishing, trying to remember the best way of going about hand fishing from the handful of times she's done it in the Colony. They rarely ate meat, but for special occasions and ceremonies they liked to fish and find birds for a big feast. They always thanked the animals for their meat, and it felt less like raw hunting, and more like appreciating the Great Gardens for the provisions. They would have done something similar for Finnick's arrival, had it not been so abrupt and secret until the very last minute.

She misses more trout than she catches them, but she does make it to three more catches after the initial one, tossing the fourth to shore without much thought, her mind already honing in on the next glistening body beneath the tinted water.

"Watch where you're throwing those things." A hoarse voice cut through her concentration, and she almost falls over into the water with the momentum of her quick turn towards the source of the sound. Finnick sits upright against the tree, his eyes sleepy and his hair mussed, but very much awake. Just before his foot, her last trout flops haphazardly; she had thrown it far and straight towards him without really noticing.

"You're up!" Anneyce splashes through the bed and tumbles to shore, looking for the water canteen. "How do you feel?" She asks, sinking down beside him to hand him the water.

"Like a boulder rolled over me in my sleep." He takes a long, long swig with slow movements. He almost tips the canteen over when he drops his arm, hanging almost limply by his side. She takes the container from him, recaps it, and sets it to the side. "But incredibly well-rested."

She reaches up, feels his forehead and cheeks with the back of her hands for a fever, but finds nothing. "You were out for a day and a half."

"Felt like five minutes." His entranced eyes linger on her mouth, his expression somewhat ghosted into the one he had carried moments after they escaped the Fae encounter. Whatever spell her voice had over him appears to linger still. It makes her stomach flop nervously. She hopes it wears off soon.

"Can you move okay?" She says quietly, sitting back on her heels.

He tests his feet, clenches and unclenches his fists, and rolls his head. With a shrug, he smiles. "Yeah. I'm just really drowsy."

"Well, take it easy, but try to keep moving." She advises, and then scoots their canvas bag close to him. "And try to eat something."

"Aye-aye, captain." He murmurs groggily, and then leans over to dig through the bag.

"Eat the rest of the stew, if you can." She says, rising to her feet to scoop up the now dead fish at his feet.

Walking over to the fire, she tentatively scoots the boiling water to the side to cool, and set to work skinning the trout with one of the small knives Johanna had thought to pack away for them, while he works on the last of the stew, sipping it down from the can. Anneyce has to stop herself more than once from humming, a default action for her when she's doing busywork. She's afraid what something as small as humming a tune would do to Finnick at the moment.

"That was clever, what you did." He says, after a moment of content silence.

"It didn't feel very clever." She mumbles over her shoulder, half to him, half to herself. "Look at you now."

"I'm not dancing with deranged pixies." He shrugs, setting down the empty stew can. She looks fully at him, and his eyes still glisten in that taken way, narrowing in on her lips. He stays steady, though; doesn't sway like the night before. "That counts for something, right?"

"I suppose." She relents, but she still privately ferments in her own regrets. If she had been even a  _touch_  more vigilant, it wouldn't have happened at all, and no words of reassurance could change her mind on that front.

Eventually, he rises to his feet, swinging out his arms and stretching on his toes. Shucking off his shirt, he works his way to the river, splashing water over his face, and squatting over the embankment to rinse his arms and chest.

And then he starts fishing.

What she had just been struggling to do moments earlier seems to come to him with ease. Aside from one or two shaky starts as he battles the drowsiness in his movements, he doesn't miss a single fish that brushes by him; Anneyce would be convinced they all but swim right into his waiting hands if she hadn't just been struggling to fish for them moments before.

They settle into a rhythm of it; as they flop to shore, she works to skin and debone them. She's slow, though, not used to so much hunting and skinning, and after his 6th catch he settles down next to her to help prepare the meat. She's enraptured, forgetting her actions and just watches his steady movements as he quickly descales the fish with swift, precise movements.

Eventually, he notices her staring, and smiles. "You need something, Annie?"

She flushes, embarrassed by her gawking, but the statement flits passed her lips without much thought. "You're very good at all of this."

"Where I'm from, fishing is a heavy commodity." He explains with a shrug, his eyes flitting back down to the trout in his hands. "I grew up doing this." He flexes his hands, eyeing their greatly uneven meat piles, and then her, mischievously. "It's been a while, though. I'm kind of rusty, don't you think?"

She laughs, and his pupils dilate a moment. He's quiet for a beat, just watching her lips again in that dazed, spellbound way. She watches wearily as he clears it out with a small shake of his head, and continues working on the fish in his hands.

"So, there are a lot of rivers where you're from?" She asks, pointedly ignoring the last sequence of events.

"It's all ocean." He says and her confusion is so loud he looks up to meet her quizzical expression. "You know, saltwater?"

"You don't know what the ocean is?" He prods, at her continued silence.

"I know it's like a large pond." She says, cheeks heating up with more embarrassment. "We don't have the ocean here, though. At least, not around the Great Gardens."

She'd heard bits and pieces of the different environments from his world. Large, thousand foot tall rocks called mountains, so tall their peaks are painted in snow. Rolling hills interrupted by flat plateaus, and areas where the land borders miles of water. 

Her world is so invested in forest, in which large plots of cleared out land are scarce, and she's never really heard of anything close to resembling the ocean.

He chews his cheek, mulling that over. "Well, you're in for something new when we get to District 4."

A twinge of excitement flits through her belly and she smiles at him. "I look forward to it."

And she was. Anneyce was incredibly curious to see his world. She had never given much thought to viewing the human world until now that she was about to dive headfirst into it. She never had much reason to – it wasn't a big topic in the Colony, and she was too busy living and flourishing in the Great Gardens to really care about the world outside of her own.

But now that she was about to enter the human world, her mind was buzzing with all new questions. What does it look like? Smell like? Could it be much more different than this place, where she's lived her whole life?

But there were things about Finnick's world that were still mysterious; elements of his day to day life he was keeping under lock and key. She's seen snippets of it in his mannerisms, his confusion about the mechanics of the Great Forest, and in his desperation to stay.

 _"I have no where else to go."_ That's what he said to her. Before he wound up here, he was on the run from his world. It was something that circled her mind for the past few days, but she never found the courage to ask what he meant by it. What could he be running from?

And all the same, there was another detail about him that remained equally perplexing. Izzie had kept calling him the winner: the "65th Winner." Anneyce tried to figure out what that meant, again too nervous to ask him outright about it. His reaction to be called that was always tense, elastic held taut. So she never pressed him on it, figuring it was something he'd share in due time.

But now she's thinking maybe before they even cross over, they needed to clear the air. At least, in order to prepare her for what was to come.

What were they about to walk into?

It eats at her as they finish their fishing. It digs under her skin as she watches Finnick prep the fire and cook the fish, leaving a few trout aside to dry out for travel under the smoke of the burning fire as the sun dips away behind the trees.

They eat in silence as she stews in her own head. She's trying to find the best way to bring it up, not wanting to upset him. There are moments where she thinks she's found a window, but then he yawns or starts chattering about the trout and Izzie's house and the ever changing forest scenery, and she can't stomach puncturing his good mood. Not after going through the Fae encounter ordeal.

Anneyce finds footing to do it when they've decided to call it a night, laying under the redwood trees. It's arguably not the best time. She can hear him starting to doze away next to her, but it sets her into a quick panic, and she starts talking before she can stop herself.

"Hey, Finnick?" She says, and he's quiet and she's afraid he's already asleep. But after a moment he rolls over to look at her quizzically.

"Did you say something, Annie?" His voice is hazy with sleep, and guilt pinches her gut as whatever bravado she had seconds ago dissipates into smoke.

"Sorry." She whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you. It can wait."

He rolls onto his back, splaying one hand across his chest and tucking the under his head, like a pillow. He yawns a heady yawn. "Eh, I figured I probably slept enough anyway."

"I don't want to pry." She says, and that piques his curiosity. One of his eyebrows lift, a comma on his face goading her to continue talking.

"I just...I wanted to know more about your world. About Panem." She whispers, feeling self-conscious and guilty. She wasn't sure what she was guilty about at this point, though.

He's quiet a moment, and when he finally does speak, there's the smallest hint of a strain to his voice. "There's not much to it."

She nods, fully prepared to leave it at that. Go back to bed. Try to forget the nagging in her head. It'd be easier for both of them. He obviously didn't want to talk about it, so why force him?

But something in her was whispering for her to goad him on, get some kind of answers. She knew she'd feel restless if she didn't, even though she currently felt like she was toeing the edge of a cliff.

"If that's the case," she says slowly, softly, "why did you run away?"

He closes his eyes, takes a smooth, deep breath. She watches his chest rise and fall with the action, the white of his shirt a beacon, a cloud. Above them, a cacophony of forest sounds. Small birds and insect noises bounce off the trees, rustling the leaves and bending branches.

"I didn't exactly come from a happy community." He lies in the bed of pine needles and Anneyce rolls to her side, listening with rapt curiosity. He looks up at her movement, regarding her with a serious expression, before closing his eyes. "It was dangerous where I came from. My decisions weren't my own. I ran because I had no choice."

"No choice?" She echoes.

Finnick opens his eyes to study her for a moment, before turns to face her, propping his head up with his arm. "It was either run away, or be killed."

Anneyce sucks in a breath in surprise, her eyes wide in horror and sadness. She knew it was bad, but she didn't think it was  _that_ bad. She almost reaches out, to touch his face, horrified that anyone would ever want to harm him. She feels the sensation of protectiveness for him – a sudden flash of white-hot anger at those he had been running from.

"Why would they kill you?" She hopes the anger she feels doesn't seep into her tone, but her voice is tight when she speaks.

Finnick smiles softly, sadly. "Annie, where we are going it's, well, things are  _bad_." He frowns. "I don't want to frighten you but..." He stops, as if his mouth were plugged.

"Tell me," she whispers, reaching out to hold his free hand into hers.

And so he does.

With a dissociated voice, he tells her of the Capitol, and how they work the twelve Districts to near starvation. He tells her of the yearly reapings, and the Hunger Games, and his own bittersweet victory, at the tender age of only 14.

Izzie's voice shuffles through her head at that part.  _65th Victor._

He tells her about President Snow's intentions of his Victors – how Finnick, with his sun-strung hair and beautiful green eyes, had fallen victim once again to the Capitol's greed.

He tells her of his many long years in prostitution; of his downfall in agreeing in the beginning costing him the lives of his entire family, of how Snow was determined to engulf every piece of him: innocence, mind, and now body. He tells her of all his secrets, whispered to him in the throws of tryst and passions, and of the Quarter Quell, and how he had no choice but to go; to leave the woman who had all but raised him after his family's murder, destined to find an unknown place in an unknown destination.

It takes a long time to talk through it all. Hours. But he tells her every grimy, gritty detail, and by the end of it all she can feel nothing but the tremors in her body and the tears spilling through her eyes.

_Oh, Finnick._

"There was no chance of my name not being called that day." His voice is stone, as he references the Quarter Quell. "Snow knew all about the secrets I had harbored against him over the years. He was going to throw me into the arena, no doubt about it. And he was going to make sure I never made it out."

She does not speak, unsure how to answer past the quiver of her body and her own despair. She feels nothing but sorrow and  _guilt._

Immense, crushing guilt, threatening to stomp her away and burry her in the very dirt she lay in. The Colony was no better than the man – this  _Snow_  – who held him hostage all these years, who took away his choice for his own selfish greed.

_Her people were no better._

_Greedy, greedy lips..._

"Oh, Finnick," the tears bleed down her lips, and she hiccups against the negative space in her chest. All those hands on him...those lips...against his will...

_Her fault, all her fault..._

"I'm sorry, I'm  _so sorry."_  She repeats it over and over, a mantra, until he shushes her gently.

"No, no." He murmurs. "Not your fault, never your fault. You've helped so much, Annie. So much. You're not like them."

Her heart breaks even more at his last statement.

_Not like them._

Who are "them," at this point in the road? Does it matter?

She thinks of the Colony and all she sees is home, friends, warmth. A community – her family. But are they no better than the Capitol? Are they no less bloodthirsty? No reasoning can undo the pain they've inflicted. All of them.  _All of her._

And then, amidst all of it, a selfish, horrifying thought occurs to Anneyce.

She'd rather they all died than give this human man another night in shackles. She wished the Great Gardens sucked them dry, if only it meant that Finnick wouldn't have had to endure a single night in their damaging company. That no human would have had to, ever again.

Anneyce doesn't even realize she's crying loud, horrendous sobs until the sound of her own voice scares her.

Through the blurs of her tears, Finnick's face is panicked, unsure of how to help or what to make of it, but she doesn't know how to explain it to him; this sudden, hallowing sadness she feels. All at once, in a floodgate of emotion, she's mourning the Colony that she thought she knew. Mourning him and his pain. Mourning the citizens of his world – of Panem. Mourning herself and her mother.

Mourning her father.

_God, they were monsters. All of them._

_All of her._

Strong arms snake around her shoulders, pulling, pulling her close until her head tucks against his shoulder. She clings to him then, like a life vest, and rips the sobs in her chest onto the thin fabric of his shirt. Finnick doesn't speak, only occasionally shushes her when the crying reaches higher crescendos. He starts rubbing circles on her back, and when that seems to curb some of the crying noises from her, he continues the motion relentlessly.

And then, with the tears still flowing the worn down tracks of her cheeks, she falls asleep in the cocoon of his arms and washed away in her mourning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gawrsh the end of this chapter is so dramatic. gotta love it ;)


End file.
